


All I've Ever Known

by sml6749



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family, Fix-It, Folklore, Healing, Healthier Choices, Mockingjay Epilogue Compliant, Original Character(s), POV Katniss Everdeen, Personal Growth, Post-Rebellion Story, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Rebuilding, Recovery, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 118,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sml6749/pseuds/sml6749
Summary: Left broken and exiled in District 12, Katniss must learn how to put herself back together and find something to live for now that everything in her life has changed."Everything was simpler in these woods. The confusing expectations and demands of this new life, the never-ending parade of life-or-death decisions and deceits, they couldn’t follow me here. I don’t remember thinking of much, I just needed some place to breathe, someplace to just be... Simple things, that’s all I’ve ever known and all I’ve ever needed. Why did life have to get so complicated? A full belly for my sister and a field of dandelions is all I wished for. "
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 48
Kudos: 81





	1. CHAPTER I

**Author's Note:**

> From the author: All I've Ever Known began as a character study. I have a deep affection for Katniss' character and felt that she lost a bit of her identity to Collin's expanding plot movements, trite love triangles, and larger story themes. I concede that the world around her pushes changes upon her, but I felt this strange pull, even years later, to defend and advocate for her. I wanted to re-imagine an ending that brings her back to her roots and core values.
> 
> This story hopes to better explain the turmoil and trauma she is going through and offer a more truthful, and perhaps healthier, path to recovery. I wanted to really look at how a person heals and how one can find a way to keep on living. It isn't an action packed story; it's about relationships. I wanted to explore the idea that sometimes our real family isn't one connected by blood and how with only a couple of people's genuine support and reminders of the lessons her father instilled in her as a child, Katniss could have put herself back together instead of withering away and depending on a broken Peeta to do it for her. Some may find my Katniss to be too thoughtful or evolved, however I'd argue that after all she's been through, she's had to learn the hard way and mature quickly.
> 
> AIEK is my first and likely only FF. It was something that nagged at me for years and, once the quarantine boredom hit, I finally decided to write it all down. However, I invite any thoughts or critiques. Also, I draw from various myths and folklore and welcome you to comment if you catch a reference. I hope you enjoy and wish you all the best.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of The Hunger Games Trilogy author Suzanne Collins. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

CHAPTER I

> “I know, little duck,” I coo into my sister’s ear, “I know it hurts.”
> 
> Her fragile body shivers violently as she whimpers into my own skeletal chest. I pull her even closer, fusing her against me, burying us further under the mountain of every piece of fabric we own.
> 
> How did I let it get this bad? It’s been two months, one week, and five days since my father’s death, and I’ve spent every day fighting to not disappoint him, to not fail him. I have to keep my sister and my mother safe. We were supposed to do it together, but now my father is gone and I don’t know how to do this without him.
> 
> For the first month, I did okay. It was hard, but Prim stayed warm and fed. We might have had to miss meals, but we made due. I covered up for my mother and we endured. But then it worsened. Winter was cruel. Food was nonexistent. We swallowed every last scrap, and then resorted to trading whatever I could to give Primrose every morsel exchanged.
> 
> Ten days now without anything but crumbs and old leaves to chew on. I’ve turned my hunger into focus and anger; I fill my belly with fury instead of food. But my little duck, that is not a life for her. She isn’t strong enough for this.
> 
> I close my eyes and hold her close. “I swear to you, Prim, I promise. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll never let anything harm you again.”

My head throbs.

> I hear a voice screaming. I want to look around for it, but then realize they are my own lips moving and my own throat is burning. _“I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute.”_
> 
> _“I just want you to come home. You will try, won’t you? Really, really try?”_ Her shaky voice asks.
> 
> _“Don’t go.” Rue tightens her grip on my hand. “Course not, staying right here.”_
> 
> _I tuck the sleeping bag up around Peeta’s feverish body. “You’re not going to die. I forbid it. All right?”_
> 
> _“You’re not leaving me here alone.”_
> 
> _Pouring the berries into his palm, “Trust me. On the count of three?”_
> 
> _“You were dead. Your heart stopped!”_
> 
> _I take Peeta’s face in my hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at midnight.”_
> 
> _“Katniss, there is no District 12.”_
> 
> _I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think. My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat._
> 
> _Finally, he can see me for who I really am. Violent. Distrustful. Manipulative. Deadly._
> 
> _“I guess there isn’t a rule book for what might be acceptable to do to another human being.”_
> 
> _I'm almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off._
> 
> _“I’m sure she wasn’t gunning for your sister, but these things happen.”_
> 
> _“Was it your bomb?"_
> 
> _“I vote yes… for Prim.” *_

The throbbing now pounds into my skull. Shivering, my vision fades in and out.

> “How much longer will it be, Papa?” I look to my father for some kind of guidance. At 4-years old I’m not very good at waiting. We’ve been sitting on the steps of our home for hours while Mama figures out how to get the baby unstuck from her tummy.
> 
> “I don’t know, little moon. Sometimes it takes a long time.” He attempts to soothe me but I can tell he’s worried. Mama is very delicate. She looks like a flower but she’s been screaming like a goat. _She’s a healer_ , I think to myself _, she should really know how to get the baby unstuck._ Maybe she wrote down the directions somewhere in case she forgot.
> 
> I bite my tongue; my suggestions might not be appreciated right now.
> 
> I look into my father’s eyes and can see that something is not right. That’s no good at all. I shuffle over and grab his prickly face in my hands. I move my face real close until we’re touching, nose-to-nose. Now I can really study what I see.
> 
> “Papa, why do you look so sad? You should be happy.” My whisper is just louder than the wind that carries it. His face looks so serious, so unlike my Papa. If he doesn’t fix it, maybe I should just mush his cheeks into a happier face.
> 
> He gathers me up and cradles me in his arms. “My Katniss, you are so special, do you know that?” I wiggle, unsure how I’m supposed to respond. Is special good? “You’re right I should be happy, but Papa can’t help but feel very, very worried.”
> 
> “Why?” He pauses, his hand combing through my hair while he thinks.
> 
> “This world is not always kind. My constant worry for you, little moon, was more than enough. Sometimes it’s hard to make sure you and your Ma are safe and fed, and it’s going to be harder now with another little brother or sister.”
> 
> I nuzzle my head into his chest where I can hear the thumping of his heart.
> 
> “I wish so much I could give you a world you and the new baby deserve. A world where you’ll always be warm, you’ll never be hungry, and you’ll never be afraid. A world where no one could ever take you away from me,” he whispers, emotion making his voice wobbly.
> 
> I lift my head and look up at my father. I don’t want anyone to ever take me away from my Papa. Why would someone do that? Why would someone take away the new baby? Nope. I don’t like that idea at all. I purse my lips, harden my silver eyes, and roll back my shoulders with conviction. “I can help, Papa. I’ll take care of the new baby like you take care of me. I’ll be the best big sister and you don’t have to be worried anymore.”
> 
> My grave promise soon switches to one of excitement, “Papa! I can be like a honeybee!”
> 
> My father furrows his brows, confused by my announcement. Soon he understands my reference, relaxing into a toothy smile and a deep belly laugh. “You mean like the honeybees I told you about last summer?”
> 
> “Yes,” I confirm merrily. “You said the bees in the bee-house are all siblings. You said the older sisters take care of the baby bees. They feed them and they clean them and they protect them.” I poke him in the chest with zeal, “You said they are so connected they can always tell when their sister bee is in trouble and will fly to fight off trouble.” I’m pleased with my recitation. I remembered lots and lots from Papa and my sticky-fingered trip to the bee-house.
> 
> He squeezes me tightly. “Oh my precious songbird. I know you’ll be the best big sister a baby or, a bee for that matter, could ask for. You’ll never let any harm come to our newest Everdeen, will you? You and me, we’ll keep them safe.”

“Alright child, this has gone on long enough.”

Sae grips both of my arms and pins my shoulders back, ceasing my rocking. Her hands may be wrinkled from age, but they grip me with the strength of a much younger woman. I feel their warmth as they begin to defrost the shield that I’ve encased myself in. My father’s loving face drifts away like the morning mist. I wish it would stay for a little bit longer. I had hope at age four. Not so much at seventeen.

 _What did Sae tell me?_ Her voice wasn’t tinted with frustration, but rather with the nonchalance of a person simply stating an obvious fact. She said… _something_ …

I’m… I’m not… I blink slowly, gaining my bearings… _how long have I been out of it?_ At some point, I know I decided to surrender to whatever was clawing inside of me. I needed to be held hostage by the barrage of memories, the jumbled-up flashes and scenes of my discordant life. Perhaps, if I stayed captive long enough, if I rocked this chair back and forth a few thousand more times, I might be able to finally understand where it all went so wrong.

 _“This has gone on long enough”-_ that is what Sae said. Looking out the window at the melting snow, one might guess that it is nearly March. Could over a month really have passed since returning to 12? I know days passed, but weeks? No, maybe it is just an early thaw this year.

But, by the look of my own skin, that appears to be only wishful thinking on my part. My time back in 12 feels a blur, but evidenced by my matted hair and grimy skin, I’ve been lost for several weeks. I’ve avoided mirrors since my time in the Capitol. I’ve never been much to look at, but whatever looks I may have once had are long gone. I know what I must look like. Katniss Everdeen: chewed up, spat out, and lit on fire just for good measure. By the look of my hands, bony and wan, I’m sure it must be worse than what I imagine.

I know I’ve been eating. I have distinct memories of Sae pushing small bowls of broth or oatmeal. Or at least I think that is what was in the bowls. I couldn’t tell you anything about their taste, they all were flavorless to me, but I cooperated. Eating only because that’s what was expected. Going through the motions. Spoon, chew, swallow, repeat.

It’s not like it was after I shot Coin. When I awoke in the training center, I was positive my death was imminent. I knew they would be sure to make it a painful one or, worse, I would be forced into some kind of Mockingjay servitude for the government or tossed into a new Hunger Games for pure entertainment. I had no doubt. Why else would they have put me in the exact same room I slept in before I was sent into the Arenas? It’s my traditional last stop before being marched to my death.

When the nightlock pill plan failed because Peeta’s quick reach, and then Gale irritatingly refused to shoot me like we agreed upon, I quickly fell back to my tried-and-true method of unemotionally calculating threats. I needed to end things quickly before whatever plans the Capitol had for my execution could be carried out. It was sure to be unpleasant and I personally appreciated the humor of my sheer stubbornness denying them the pleasure.

However, there were no sharp objects or items to fashion a noose, and no way to jump, glass too thick and forcefield likely still in effect. The only option left was to starve myself out. Starvation is something I am acutely experienced with. It was an easy decision to refuse the food and medications left for me. Familiar. A real Hunger Game. I was confident that, although slow, it would be a successful path to my demise. I know the process and the pain involved. I could handle that kind of death. There was even a sort of poetry to it.

That’s when the chills, sweats, and sickness began.

After days of misery, I began to recognize the signs. These were not symptoms of starvation, nor were they signs of some infection from my torn skin. The vomiting, the shaking, the heart pains, I saw these symptoms with the District 6 Victors before the Quell and intimately in 13 with Johanna. I wasn’t starving, I was going through withdrawal.

 _How much morphling did they keep me on?_ I had been in the hospital so much over the last year or so, a parade of injuries. And looking back, since arriving in 13, everything was particularly uneasy. My emotions swinging widely, I constantly felt confused and unbalanced. Did they need their Mockingjay to be more pliable? Goodness knows I’ve never been willingly cooperative with authority and Coin would not have found such methods beneath her code of ethics.

The hunger strike continued, but I adjusted my plan of ignoring the morphling tablets they leave me. After a few days of a balanced diet of pills and air, the euphoria of the morphling must have hit. That’s the only explanation I can find for my musical outbursts. Singing appears to be how my starving doped-up body decides to cope. Weeks passed, and eventually my singing or physical state must have concerned someone, and they began to wean me off the tablets. A pretty lazy detox plan. I kept asking myself, _How am I not dead yet?_ I spent years trying so hard to survive; it really shouldn’t be so difficult for a person to die.

When I finally began to recognize the signs that I was nearing the end, my grand exit plan was thwarted by a demon reeking of liquor. My Mockingjay cage door was swung open to the face of my darling mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. He grunts something about there being a trial and I’m going home and _wait- What?_ It had been weeks since I’d seen another human being let alone talked to one. My body, so near the edge of shriveling up and slipping away, was slow to adjust to normal communication making the ability to concentrate on his rapidly grunted words amidst his wild gesticulations an impossible feat. Really, what brilliant mind thought Haymitch should be the first person I saw?

He started shouting out the door and then I felt my body lifted and passed around like a rag doll. The doll was forcibly rehydrated and nourished, then strapped in a hovercraft. No real care being given, just the absolute minimum to guarantee I wouldn’t die in transit.

 _But why?_ Everything was still so confusing. Conversations faded in and out of my ears and honestly they might as well have been speaking in another language. I catch enough to feign along with Haymitch’s conversations. We land, and he promptly deposits me at my house where I don’t see him again.

Although I still don’t understand how I got here, I did comprehend enough information to know that my starvation plan was no longer necessary. And I’m not one for suicide just for suicide’s sake, so when Sae started showing up, sternly putting bowls in front of me, I ate. I didn’t enjoy. Can’t enjoy. But I do survive. Always survive.

My body aches. My skin is thin like tissue paper. The damage to the fresh skin grafts from when I was arrested was never repaired, but I know better than to ask. They’ve sent their Mockingjay as far away as they could. I was seen by plenty of doctors and officials. They saw what state I was in. This is how they want me and I’ll take my penance for the crimes I’ve committed.

Other than an emotional shouting match with the prodigal cat Buttercup, I don’t think I’ve said more than one or two words since Haymitch deposited me on my doorstep. Words seem to shrivel upon my tongue. I know I can speak just fine, but I’ve nothing really to say. I was used as a mouthpiece for months, silence sounds like a blessing.

Things like showers or fresh clothes, I have not avoided them purposefully. The days have just slipped away and those things weren’t required. And am I supposed to take care of a body that never takes care of me back?

My losing time, that’s what I’m most worried about. As I replayed and evaluated every memory my mind could conjure, I thought I was still relatively aware of what was going on around me. But if it’s nearly March, then clearly I’ve not been aware at all. This feels too familiar to my mother for my taste. And that is unacceptable.

Sae takes a hand and curls it under my chin, tilting my head up so my eyes are forced to meet her. She holds me there, waiting. I blink and try to focus my dulled grey eyes to her.

“There you are. Knew you weren’t that far away,” she says relieved. “Katniss, I’ve let you take your time, but winter is almost over now and it’s time for you to stop your hibernating.”

Hibernating. Sae’s always known how to speak my language. I have been hibernating, haven’t I? I’ve withdrawn into seclusion and let myself go dormant. But how does a bear know when it’s time to leave their den? No one tells them, they just know.

“How?”

“Well,” she says with piercing eyes, “We’ll start with cleaning you up. I’m no fancy-colored Capitol beauty team, but we’ll get you looking a little less… feral.” She releases me and steps back to evaluate the situation. “Then, we’ll get you eating a few more meals a day so you aren’t just skin and bones. After that, I think we’ll send you outside and see if the woods can do the rest.”

I pause, thinking through the steps, then nod. It’s a sound plan: wash, eat, woods. I can do those things. No expectations of talking or smiles. No feelings at all. Just attainable actions: wash, eat, woods. _Yes I can do this._

Sae holds out a hand to me and I take it. It isn’t a handshake and yet is still a gesture, an agreement of sorts. She pulls me in close and whispers is fiercely, “You are not your ma. Remember that.”

* * *

In the bathroom, I shed the over-worn clothing. Looking at the items as I peel them off, they may be beyond help. Best to just toss them in the fire. Bucking up the courage, I finally look at myself in the mirror.

 _No._ I don’t know if I even looked this frail when Peeta threw me the bread. My limbs shake, jangling bones like a drawer of fine cutlery. I can count nearly every bone in my body. I feel less like a woman and more like an amalgamation of harsh angles. I wonder if my bones are as breakable as they look. Right now, it looks like a harsh wind could snap me like a twig.

I stare into my empty eyes. Nowhere else is it more obvious that I’ve sealed my windows up for winter. Instead of open portals, old planks of nailed up wood reflect back. Did I board them up to keep the world out or to lock myself inside?

The last time they saw me, my prep team was so distraught they barely made it through. If they saw me now, they just might faint on first sight. My hair is a disaster and Flavius would probably tell me I best just shave it all and get a wig. I’m not sure how to begin untangling the web of knots, but, at this point, shaving it isn’t off the table.

The angry patches from the skin grafts have settled down, but there are rough ugly scars scattered all over my body from where they ripped open in my struggle and never healed properly. If my mother was here maybe she’d bring out a lotion with chamomile or calendula to soothe itchiness and irritations, but I’m on my own. Best get use to it.

I open the cabinets under the sink where I once shoved all of the products the prep team brought for me. Digging through the odd-looking bottles and jars, I have to read each one to try and figure out what mysterious beautifying process they accomplish. Ten minutes later, I’m gratefully clutching a bizarre bottle of blue liquid apparently called detangler, some intense looking bottles of wash and conditioner, and the recognizable shape of a bar of soap.

As I stand under the spray of the shower, I watch the color of the water change as it flows down the tile marring the pristine white ceramic.

 _You are not your ma. You are not your ma._ The phrase repeats in my head like a refrain. Am I though? If I had my mother’s coloring, to an outsider, this last month would look pretty identical.

But Sae said I was hibernating. I try to remember, as I work the products through my hair. Mother was never hibernating. No Mother was dead inside. She was unresponsive. There were months where we had to pull her out of bed and force-feed her. That wasn’t me. And I'm certain, like a momma bear, if I had someone depending on me, my own cubs, I’d never hibernate without first protecting him or her.

 _No_. No, I’m nothing like my mother. _I am not my ma._

Over an hour later, I’m chaffed red, like one of the Capitol’s fancy cooked lobsters, but my skin feels clean and I can slide my fingers through my hair. Wrapped in a large bathrobe, I nearly vomit at the smell of the clothing I was previously wearing. A surge of affection for Sae hits me. She never said a word about the stench, not even a twitch of her nose. _Yes, these are definitely going straight into the fire_.

When I walk back down the stairs, Sae is waiting for me with a plate filled with small bites of pork, potatoes, and greens. She looks at me with a smile and a simple, “Much better.”

Sitting next to me and poking around her own plate with chubby little fingers is Sae’s granddaughter Anabel. Some have called her simple or treat her as if she was barely more than a pet, but I’ve always liked Ana. If you watch her, her eyes are perceptive and comprehending. Her silence has never bothered me, but now more than ever I appreciate that she doesn’t need words. She is content to watch the world around her in fascination. Not a bad way to live, if you ask me.

As they leave for the night, Sae lets me know that my bow is in the closet and I immediately tense.

“Don’t need food with the train bringing your supplies every couple of weeks and there only being the four of us, but you need to get out of this house for a few hours. Your forest has missed you.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just nod. The emotional strain from the day’s changes is starting to weigh on me. It’s a testimony to how little I’ve done these last months that simply washing myself is enough to push my limits.

I’m fighting the ever-growing urge to crawl under the covers for the next week when I feel a tug at my right sleeve. Little Anabel is standing there, intensely surveying my features. It’s a wonder how such a complex look can appear on such a cherubic face. The way her dark eyebrows furrow, I feel like she is looking for something. Am I a puzzle she’s trying to solve? If so, I wonder if she’s able to see the pieces that I’ve permanently lost. I am a puzzle she has no hope in ever completing.

Lifting my left hand, I gently tap her nose with my finger. It’s a gesture I’d saved for her since before she could toddle. Whatever she was looking for, the bop on her nose seemed to either answer it or thoroughly distract her from the original task. She grins widely, showing off her missing tooth, and reaches into her smock pocket. Clutched fiercely in her tight fist, is a yellow burst of color on a limping stem. As she holds it out to me with pride, I can tell the tight quarters of her pocket have done nothing to damage the shock of sunshine blossoming.

 _Hello, old friend,_ I think, as my eyes begin to well up. If someone could have handed me the one object in the whole world that would most remind me of who I truly am and what is really important, they would have handed me a gnarled-up dandelion just like this one. An unassuming little weed built for endurance. Not that pretty or delicate, instead opting for practical, efficient, and stubborn.

They’ve always felt like loyalty to me. When all the other plants couldn’t survive the season’s turning, you could always count on the dandelions to persevere. When the hunger had already depleted our fat reserves and turned against the muscle, they’d be there. A handful of blossoms, leaves, or even roots would help us make it to the next day. And whenever the winter snow would do everything it could to snuff them out, you’d still see their scrappy frozen stems pushing through the frost, their deep-seeded roots making sure it’s damn near impossible to ever get rid of them. Loyalty and resilience.

Well loyalty, resilience, and Peeta. Peeta. Brightness and hope. How could I not be reminded of him? A gold-topped promise on a mangled but steady stem.

“For me?” I croak and before I can thank her she’s dashed out the door.

I look down at the little weed, taking in every little detail. _Rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.*_ I’d like so much for that to be true.

* * *

After a miserable night of dreams dripping with murder, the next morning comes. It took an hour of internal debating until I found myself in front of my old bow, where I since have stared for the past ten minutes. It was found in a box down the hall where Sae said to look. With it, father’s hunting jacket, my parents’ wedding photo, the Quell’s spile and locket, and our family plant book. I try not to let my thoughts linger on any of these things. In different ways, each means so much to me and it’s a miracle they have made it through the last year. _Just like me._ If I have any hope of leaving this house today, I can't let my thoughts stray down any of those roads.

Knowing how fragile my skin now is, I layer on the thickest scarves I can find and a pair of fur-lined gloves. I put my father’s hunting jacket on last, thinking that maybe the woods will recognize the sight. Reluctantly, I pull the bow and sheath over my shoulder. For the first time in my life, that action makes my skin crawl.

I push that thought to the back of my mind and head straight for the trees at the end of the lane, having no interest in straying anywhere near the town. The snow is beginning to melt and droppings of melting ice glisten from the branches as they begin their paths towards the earth.

It’s quiet. So very quiet.

I follow a familiar path, one I used to wander often during the months between the two Games. When the nightmares would tear through the night, when I couldn’t bear the sad looks that would mar my family’s faces when they saw me, when Gale’s constant pushing and possessiveness would strangle the air from my lungs, and when the guilt from Peeta’s disappointment felt like it could crush me to dust, I would escape into the trees behind Victors Village and walk for hours.

Everything was simpler here. The confusing expectations and demands of this new life, the never-ending parade of life-or-death decisions and deceits, they couldn’t follow me here. I don’t remember thinking of much, I just needed some place to breathe, someplace to just _be_.

I rub the string of the bow as it presses into my chest. It feels like it’s buzzing into my bones. Humming. I’ve carried my bow this way for years. Why does it feel so strange now, so unwelcome pressing into my flesh? I pull it off over my shoulders and shake off the ill feeling. I know it’s only in my head. Like when I have those flashes from the Games interrupting my normal activities, it’s not real, I know that.

This bow is one that once was hidden in the woods, its yew worn smooth with age. More than a tool, it meant survival for my family. It brought me my only sense of security and eventually the confidence and drive I would come to rely on. Even at eleven, I would wrap my little hand around its grip and could feel a special power from it. It was a connection. A connection from myself, to my father, to this land. It was probably my _only_ deep connection to this world besides my little d- besides _her_.

Ever since my father left us, I felt exposed and vulnerable. I felt disconnected and deserted. Oh how I loathed feeling that way. But this bow, this bow was steady and honest and true. It was my inheritance, my birthright: the Everdeen legacy. My family’s hands crafted this bow and it was held tightly in their hands as they defied those in power to feed and protect their own families. I never really saw it as a weapon. It wasn’t until the Games.

> _“You know how to kill.”_
> 
> _“Not people.”_
> 
> _“How different can it be, really?”_ *

I shake my head. Gale never understood, even once he saw what it was like in the war. It never clawed at him the way it seemed to me. He never got it. _How different can it be?_ Completely different, Gale, completely.

I treasured my time hunting. It was something precious that I secreted away from nearly the entire world. It became a piece of me, or maybe I became a piece of it. But the Capitol took my family’s gift, and turned it into an ugly sport. Then 13 corrupted it into nothing more than a weapon of war and a symbol of vengeance.

I drop the old yew bow as if it were on fire.

The Mockingjay bow, it was almost like a living thing. It hummed, and itched, and vibrated. It _knew_ you, it took _possession_ of you. It was powerful yes, but it was cold and sterile. It was somehow uncomfortably intimate. My bow went from being an extension of me, to a creature all its own, a mutt with its own charges, all fire and instincts.

It’s like I lost myself. I went from being a girl who used a bow to feed her family and survive the Games, to a girl who used a bow to blow down planes and make propaganda, who used a bow to seek out ill-planned revenge against presidents and kills random innocents who get in the way. When did I become that person?

I don’t want to hunt. I’m afraid right now the twang of the string releasing might cause me to vomit. It’s not this bow’s fault, I know it’s in my head. But until I can get this phantom humming to stop, I just don’t trust it the way I once did.

I continue along, brushing my fingers against the trunks of the trees as I pass. A _hello_ , or an _I’ve missed you_. At the base of one of the larger trees is a hearty bloom of dandelions, the warriors that fought through the winter ice to peek from the soil. I think back to Anabel’s gift last night and sink down to my knees. Simple things, that’s all I’ve ever known and all I’ve ever needed. Why did life have to get so complicated? A full belly for my sister and a field of dandelions is all I wished for. I sit on the cold ground, run my fingers through the meager patch of flowers, and try to recall an image I once tried to burn into my memory.

> “Katniss, what are we doing out here?”
> 
> “We’re going to pick flowers, little duck,” I answer with a smirk. She looks at me, dumbfounded by my response, “Huh? _You_ want to pick flowers?”
> 
> I chuckle, knowing she must be confused. The luxury of picking flowers is not something we have been afforded these past months. Beautiful things are either expensive or distracting. Pa and I would bring back bouquets of herbs from the woods for mother and her medicines. He would present the humble cuttings as if they were a grand bouquet of the finest roses. Since his death, I haven’t had the heart and Mother obviously hasn’t had the ability to appreciate them.
> 
> “Well, my Primrose, what if I told you we were going to pick a basket full of flowers and then we are going to eat them all up?” “Oh Katniss, don’t be silly, you can’t eat flowers,” she says, shaking her head at my misinformation.
> 
> “That’s why I’m the big sister and you’re the little duck. Despite that brilliant head of yours, I hate to break it to you but you are just barely eight years old. You still have a few more things to learn,” I joke as I tug on one of her braids.
> 
> “So we are really going to eat flowers for dinner?”
> 
> “Yes, madam, we shall be dining on dandelions,” I tell her in my most Capitol of voices.
> 
> “So tell me Prim,” I whisper conspiratorially, ”if I were on the hunt for a whole bunch of dandelions where might I look?”
> 
> She squeals, “I know! I know! I know,” as she begins tugging at my hand to pull me along. “Lead the way, little duck!”
> 
> The Seam folk seem to smile at the odd scene we make as we fly past their homes. I’d be embarrassed at the attention it if it wasn’t for the laughter pealing from my sister. I’ve missed that sound. It’s been many months since I’ve heard it.
> 
> When we arrive at her intended destination, she bolts to the middle of the field where a large cluster of the flowers are growing, shouting as she runs, “Coooome oooooooon!”
> 
> When she reaches the dandelions, she throws her arms up to the sky and twirls in celebration. As I watch, I consciously try and burn that image into my memory. After the bleak and miserable months we’ve had since Pa’s death, living in a constant state of fear of starvation or worse, of someone finding out about Ma’s state and sending us to the orphans’ home, the happiness radiating off of her is priceless.
> 
> _We made it. I can’t believe we made it_. I was so sure I would fail her. Forty-eight hours ago I believed we were nearly at deaths door, but now? Today, a kind boy with a bruised cheek and a tiny yellow weed sprouting from the schoolyard grass brought a promise of something better.
> 
> I have a plan now, and a plan means hope.
> 
> Pa taught me all sorts of valuable things on our adventures. He didn’t leave us unprepared. He made sure I learned about the land, its fruits, and its dangers. Every trip we made, he subtly planted another tiny seed of knowledge.
> 
> After everything happened, amidst the panic left in the wake of his death, my best hope seemed to be in following the examples of the other Seam families who also lost their men. I was so desperate, looking for a solution within the confines of the community and systems of 12, that I completely overlooked the fact that my father taught me how to live outside the system. I have other options. Better options. Unlawful and riskier ones sure, but if I’m going to put my life in danger I’d rather do it with the self-respect of a lawbreaker living off the land than a beggar, a thief, or a whore.
> 
> I can do this. I know I can. Well, I think I can do this. Okay, let’s say, I’m cautiously optimistic that I can do this. I’ll pull out Pa’s plant book to study and once I get a sense for the Peacekeeper patrols, I’ll try and find the hollow logs where Pa hid his bows. Then, in a way, I’ll carry him with me.
> 
> When I reach my frolicking sister, she has already pulled out a fistful of stems. I join in and start to add to her pile. Before long we have a mound that is probably more than we need now that I look at it. Prim scoops up a handful and tosses them above her head and throws herself onto her back so they can sprinkle down on her like rain.
> 
> She turns onto her side, propping herself up with her hand under her head. “So how are we supposed to eat these?”
> 
> “I’m not completely sure. Pa said that the entire part of a dandelion is edible; its roots, stems, leaves, and flower. He always made it sound like you could eat it as-is, like greens in a salad. But I reckon there are all sorts of things we can do with them in the family plant book.”
> 
> “Oh good idea! Do you think we can look at the book tonight?” She asks, her eyes wide and hopeful.
> 
> “Yeah, I think I’d like that,” I tell her, then get an idea. “Scoot closer little duck, I think I know something you’ll like. After all that flower picking, I think you’ve earned a reward. Come watch what I do.”
> 
> I pick out 15 or so of the best looking flowers. With one of my sharper nails, I prick a hole at the top of the stem under the bloom and thread the stem of the next dandelion through it. I repeat the process, building up the chain. Prim doesn’t seem to recognize the task, so I finish the first chain by completing the circle and present it to her with pomp, “Your crown, my lady.”
> 
> She gasps and then claps as if she has just seen a magic trick. “Oh Katniss! Can you make me a bracelet, too?”
> 
> “How about you come over here and help me with it so you can remember the steps for next time.” We spend the next twenty minutes threading together every form of accessory imaginable. Our bodies are speckled with splashes of yellow, and the mound of dandelions now leftover is a much more manageable size for carrying.
> 
> As we begin the long walk home, she slips her hand into mine, threading our fingers together with feeling. In the smallest of voices she asks, “Are you going to tell me how you got that bread last night?” I can tell she’s afraid of the answer, that I might have done something terrible to get it.
> 
> For some reason, I feel like I can’t tell her the truth. I have this urge to keep the memory to myself, to keep Peeta Mellark and his confusing kindness to myself. Prim would insist on showing our thanks or becoming friendly with him, but if his cheek is any evidence, I have a dreadful feeling in my stomach that our getting close to him would bring nothing but trouble.
> 
> I sigh, knowing I have to tell her something to belay her worries.
> 
> “How about I tell you a story instead. Like one the tales Pa would tell us while by the fire or in bed during a thunderstorm to help us fall asleep. You always loved those.”
> 
> I think back, trying to remember one of the tall tales my father would tell us. Maybe I can turn one of them into a story that matches what happened in some way. I look up at the setting sun, and smile.
> 
> “Pa used to tell a story about the powerful man who brings out the sun every day. Do you remember that one, little duck? Every morning he would ride a flaming chariot pulled by four winged horses and fly the sun across the sky from east to west. He was said to have a sweet face, with hair that glowed like the rays of the sun and eyes the color of a cloudless sky. Pa used to say that because he was in the sky all day, he would watch the earth below and spy on people’s conversations to pass the time.”
> 
> I think hard and try to channel my father’s skill. I’ll turn my sad story into a special tale for her to get lost in. And it helps that there are some kernels of truth hidden in the story. I picture the sun-man and an older, stronger version of little Peeta Mellark is exactly what my mind conjures.
> 
> “One day, in a district much like our own, the golden hero watched as a scrawny girl covered in filth dug through the trashcans trying to find food for her family.” I squeeze her hand and attempt to keep my voice quivering, “She was - she was so tired and so hungry, and she couldn’t stand the thought of going home empty-handed again. Faced with her failure, she sat under and tree and cried. A mean old witch came out and yelled at the girl, told her that scrawny grey-eyed girls were not welcome under her tree.”
> 
> I take a deep breath. “But the golden-haired charioteer saw it all and took pity. He left his post and flew down in his chariot. He threw two loaves of bread to the sad girl then quickly flew away without a single word said. The girl, she could hardly believe she wasn’t dreaming. Afraid the sweet smelling bread would disappear before her very eyes, she quickly gathered the loaves, still warm from the sun, under her shirt and ran home to share the good fortune with her family.”
> 
> Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the crunching of our footsteps in the gravel. My sister’s face morphs from one of deep contemplation to a devilish smirk as if she’s unraveled a marvelous mystery.
> 
> “So that’s why the bread was burnt.”

That was a good day. It was like the light that had dimmed behind my sister’s eyes flipped back on. It was also one of the rare times where I let myself be playful with her. The three months prior to that I was desperately trying to hold things together, and after that point I was too dedicated to the woods and becoming as strong I could. I had a plan to keep my family safe and I refused to let it fail because of my own weaknesses. I’d still try to keep Prim happy, but she likely never saw me so relaxed after that day.

I pluck the resilient little flowers from the ground to weave into a crown for another little girl. It’s not the same, won’t ever be the same, but I do know she will smile – and if there’s one thing the haunted and barren District 12 desperately needs, it is a smile.

That night, watching Ana twirl in front of the fireplace, crowned with golden flowers, for a few fleeting moments, not one, but three smiles were seen in District 12, and things didn’t seem so bad.

* * *

_***** Quotes from The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, & Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	2. CHAPTER II

CHAPTER II

The days pass, and although each one is a challenge, I begin to develop a routine. I don’t hunt, but keep myself armed with a knife. I mostly wander, finding old trails and seeking out new ones. Without the fear of the Head Peacekeeper’s whip, there are portions of my forest that are now free to explore.

The air is still icy in the early morning, but as the sun rises, the first breaths of spring can be detected. If I pass by some rose hip, hawthorn berries, or chicory I might gather them to bring home, mostly out of habit - a reflex. To walk past valuable winter edibles like those seems so wasteful. Yes, we have plenty of the finely made teas and coffee supplied from the train drop-offs, but I know Sae is like me, and sometimes we prefer the unrefined taste of home.

On the fourth day of this new routine, my feet lead me to a section of woods behind the northwest end of 12, where the Peacekeeper barracks once stood. It’s an area I never would have risked hunting in. As I move through the underbrush, I begin noticing that all the surrounding tree barks look nothing like the typical trees where I would hunt. At first glance, one might think the bark belongs to an oak, but the branching is all wrong. It has the opposite branching like an Ash tree.

A foggy memory tickles at the back of my mind. It’s a memory from long ago, the same one that I felt just at the corners of my mind when I was staring at the spile from Haymitch in the Quell. I was so desperate to find us water that I didn’t take the time to trace back the details of the triggered memory.

I remember a windy morning. I was small, six or seven maybe, with sticky hands I’d lick when Pa wasn’t looking.

_Maple trees_ , I recall. The misty memories begin to take form - my father taking me out to a copse of trees to tap with a large metal bucket, a hand drill, and a spile. We’d tap the trees over several days and get just enough of the precious fluid for one very special treat.

It’s difficult to believe these are the same trees. He never would have risked taking me so near the Peacekeepers’ quarters, however standing amongst these twenty or more large maples, they feel like familiar friends. I pull out my knife and stab it into the bark of one of the trees. As expected, it comes back with clear sap shimmering from the tip. I smile at the taste when I touch my tongue to the blade.

> “According to my father, little songbird,” started my Pa, “syrup was first found because a brave warrior made a mistake. After a long winter, the warrior went out hunting, armed with his axe hoping to find dinner for his family. When he came across a wild boar he aimed carefully and threw his axe at the beast. But the warrior, he missed it completely and a his dinner ran away, scaring away all the other animals with it.”
> 
> “Oh no,” I gasp in a whisper to my father. He brushes his callused thumb across my cheek with tenderness, coaxing out a small grin from my worried features. “Don’t you worry, little songbird, ‘cause when that warrior went to retrieve his axe, he found it imbedded in the bark of a tree. He tugged it free and with it came an oozing sap that looked almost like water. But when he touched his tongue to the blade of the axe, he noticed that the water was slightly sweet. He was so amazed he ran right on home to his wife and children so they could taste the sap too.”

He always told the best stories, my father. I’d like to think that if he hadn’t died, maybe I would have inherited that Everdeen gift. Maybe I’d be more silver-tongued than even Peeta, instead of my quiet guardedness and trademark bluntness.

Pa must have left notes on how to tap the trees and make the syrup in the plant book. I know there is a page on maples because I remember reading to Peeta about the shape of the leaves and how they change from green to a brilliant orangish-red in autumn. I was mesmerized as I watched his pale hand glide across the page shading the three colors so seamlessly. It was as natural as watching the movement of the colors changing across the dawn sky.

Maybe something is there in the book, some remaining thread of this memory that I can grab onto and follow for as long as it takes me. This is a good memory. I have so many bad ones. I don’t want to let this one go.

* * *

I find my family’s plant book in the hallway where I had left it the first day I went out. I settle into the couch and let the book fall open. On the page are the recognizable yellow five-petal blooms of St. John’s Wort in Peeta’s delicate strokes. I let my fingers brush over his work. He always found a way of making his drawings have feelings and emotions.

I’ve never looked at a plant and saw anything but a plant. Food, medicine, or poison… what more is there to see? For Peeta, there was much more. Deeper. And, somehow, with each stroke of pencil, he gives me a glimpse into the world as he saw it.

I flip through pages, looking for the vibrant autumn shades of Peeta’s maple leaf. Towards the third quarter of the book, I find the image next to the handwriting that I recognize as my father’s rough scrawling.

The top portion of the page lists the ways to identify maple trees, from its bark texture to its branching and budding and finally its leaf shape. Below it are some notes on where my grandfather took him to tap, but I can’t determine directions from his notes, as his markers are unrecognizable after over twenty years.

> _Sap flows between February and March, when the daytime is warm enough to melt the snow but the nighttime still freezes. Drill 2-3 inches into the bark at an upward angle and insert a spile with a bucket underneath. Grandpa Fletch always said it was best to tap from the sunny side and look for arms and feet to guide you – drill under the arm of a branch or over a large foot of a root._

The notes continue to explain that you need to collect forty times the sap that you want to have turned into syrup. _Well that explains why I only recall ever eating it twice – that is a lot of sap._ The process of boiling it down is simple and the notes offer clear steps to get it done efficiently (and without notice).

I copy down a list of needed supplies. I’ll have to find my father’s old hand drill that’s been tucked away with some of my keepsakes and then dig through kitchen and basement for the largest buckets and pots. Fashioning handmade spiles based on the metal one from the Quell shouldn’t be too hard either according to the book’s notes.

* * *

I clearly underestimated Sae’s enthusiasm for this idea.

“Oh child, real maple syrup?” She crows.

“I haven’t had syrup since I was a tot and nicked a treat from one of the wealthy Townie boy’s lunches. He couldn’t fit his trousers as is, so honestly I was doing him a service,” she laughs. “I’d never tasted anything so heavenly, I couldn’t believe my luck. You telling me you can really make some from the trees in your woods?”

I nod and hand her the list of supplies and steps for tapping and boiling.

“Oh, I know the perfect jugs. That mentor of yours has quite the collection shoved in a closet. There’s even a pot in his kitchen that is so big I could probably cook Anabel in it. I don’t know if he tried to make his own bathtub liquor at some point or what, but you’ll be using it for something with much better results.”

It takes most of the next day to prepare everything and get it out to the trees. It must be nearly three in the afternoon by the time I begin drilling. I set up ten taps and tether jugs to their ends to collect the slow-dribbling sap. The sun is low in the sky by the time I get home and my arm aches from the repeated cranking of the hand drill.

Over the next several days I check back at the site and monitor the levels. By the fifth day, I begin bringing the jugs back two at a time, cover the tops, and line them up in a mound of snow I’ve swept together on the side of the house. The following morning I retrieve the last of the jugs and make sure the spiles are removed so the trees can heal.

Sae meets me in the back yard where I have begun tossing logs and kindling onto a large pit for a makeshift outdoor stove. She’s dragging what must be two of the largest pots I’ve ever seen. She wasn’t kidding when she said it would fit her granddaughter and I jog over to relieve her of their weight. Although my strength is far from what it once was, each day it is improving just a bit more.

It’s a frosty morning but the sun is out and it’s chasing the chill away. You can sense that the nature around us is preparing to return to life after its winter slumber. It is not yet time for them to awaken, for buds to blossom and birds to chirp, but the anticipation is there.

I retrieve a chair from the house for Sae and Ana and begin building the fire. Anabel is captivated by this strange project and won’t hear any word of her moving indoors. So like Prim, eager for a new adventure, hungry to watch and learn and refusing to admit to any weakness like feeling cold or tired. If Sae and I are out here, she will be as well.

The fire builds quickly and I begin shedding my layers of scarves. We use some old linen to strain the sap as we pour the jugs into the massive pots and set them over the fire to boil. It’ll take the entire day to simmer it down to the right consistency. The fluid will change from clear to amber, and then after a second boil, amber to a dark caramel brown.

The process is messy and there is no doubt to why my father said to make an outdoor fire. Around noon, Sae leaves for a half hour or so and returns with some hearty barley stew.

“I used to bring this out to my husband whenever I’d send him out to chop firewood. Warms you from the inside out.”

As we eat together by the fire, Sae tells me stories of her life growing up in the Seam and her first few years of marriage.

“You know I may not have ever given my Ronan a chance if it wasn’t for your grandma,” she says, surprising me.

I raise my eyebrows up dramatically as if to ask “Really?”

“Oh yes, child, your grandma was real special to me. One of the only people I’d turn to for help or advice. She was real wise. If she said something to you, you listened. Miss Lena always knew best – the entire Seam knew that. You remember her at all?”

I think back as early as I can remember. Vague memories of sitting on a beautiful pepper haired woman’s lap as she braids my hair into two plaits. “Maybe?” I scrunch up my nose and stroke my single braid.

“Ah, your braids, those came from Ma Everdeen. You were just a mite, so I’m not surprised you can’t remember much, but my, did she love sitting with you and combing your hair while she sang or told tales. She was gettin’ frail towards the end, but she’d always find a way to put those braids in your hair. Took ‘em real seriously. I asked her once, y’know. Said it was family tradition. All the women of her line wore them, she said, ‘a sign of strength and a show of power’. She’d tell me she was weaving a living history that would connect you to all the mothers and sisters that came before you.”

“I never realized,” I whisper as my fingers trace the weaves of my messy plait. I’ve always had them, but never knew why. It was the only way to wear my hair. It always felt right.

“I’m not surprised your Pa never said much. He was right heartbroken when she died. She was so special. Don’t know how else to describe it, just a real special lady. I think he had a hard time explaining that and I think he hated that you girls would never get to know her.” Sae sighs sadly, “I should have made sure to tell you about her over the years, but honestly I took her death mighty hard myself.

“When I was ‘bout fifteen, my parents were struck with fever and were both gone by month’s end. My brother was working doubles in the mine and got to know your grandpa real well. Guess, my brother mentioned the situation to him and hours later your grandmother came barging up to my door. She grabbed me, my cheeks between her two hands, and gave me this piercing examination with her eyes. Didn’t ask me anything, didn’t look in my mouth like a healer would - she just stared right into my soul. She could do that, y’know, pin you down with her eyes and lay you bare.” Sae huffs fondly, “Then she firmly declared me healthy. Told me I was coming home with her and I would not step foot in the house again until she said so.”

I nearly choke on my tea. Imagining Sae strong-armed by anyone is impossible, but hearing my grandmother’s actions described… she sounds like an immovable force. A strange sort of pride flows through me. I always wished for someone strong like that to care for us when Pa went.

“Wish I could have known her,” I mumble quietly.

“Oh child, you were the apple of her eye. Cholena knew you were special the second she clapped eyes on you.”

“Cholena?” I question, realizing, prior to today, I have never heard her name spoken.

“Mhmm, Cholena, though everyone called her Miss Lena. Once she took me in, she insisted I call her Ma Everdeen. She knew my relationship with my parents wasn’t a good one, and when I kept calling her Miss Lena or Mrs. Everdeen, I’ll never forget, she pulled me into her bosom and told me she always wanted a daughter. ‘You may not be blood, but you’re family now.’ Said, ‘I can see your soul knitting into our story now and there’s no sense tryin’ to fight it. Y-you’re ours now and w-we’ll be yours.’ Oh, hell,” Sae chokes back a small sob, “I miss that brilliant madwoman so much.”

I reach into my pocket for the scrap of fabric tucked inside and hand it over to Sae so she can wipe her face. As she wipes her nose, she laughs, “You know, I bet you anything Ma Everdeen saw this coming. I used to swear she had _the sight_ or something. She would say the strangest things. Just always seemed to _know.”_

“Did my grandmother _just know_ about your husband?” I ask wondering how my grandmother came to be so important to Sae falling in love.

“Ah, well, I s’pose I should start by tellin’ you that Ma Everdeen was the one who got me set up in the business of cookin’.” My eyebrows jump at that piece of information. Sae’s business has always been a core part of her identity in 12. Sae without her pot of mystery stew just isn’t ever seen. The very idea of her without it is like imagining her naked.

“Ma Everdeen knew I was handy in the kitchen; said the whole Seam knew my ma was so sauced she’d burn the house down if she tried her hand at cookin’ but somehow my pa and brother never looked unfed. She told me that there were plenty of husbands with wives just as much a nuisance around a stovetop and even more unmarried and desperate for a homemade meal. Said to me, that if she was a pretty young thing with a talent for turning cheap scraps into fine-tasting meals, there’d be such lines backed up at her spot at the Hob that she’d have to beat the boys away with a ladle. Within the week, I was scurrying after her as she strutted into the Hob, walked up to one of the best spots and announced to the room that this was now my spot.” She turns from the fire to smile over at me. “Y’know, I never once had to fight for that space since Miss Lena made that declaration. She said it was so, and so it was. And she was right of course, by the end of the first day I had a line of twenty men twitchin’ with excitement.”

We both chuckle at that. Though the lines I’d always seen were merely excited for food, I can easily imagine what enthusiasm Sae would have caused by adding a side of attractive young woman.

“Ma Everdeen taught me everything I know about business. We would talk for hours ‘bout the importance of making a way for yourself in the world and what we could do to best serve our community. She was a radical, full of fire, but was so sneaky about it. All innocent and mothering, she’d pinch cheeks and even tend to some of the younger Peacekeepers like they were her own chicks, but all the time she’d be listenin’ and calculatin’ and tryin’ to make things better for all of us.”

I glance down into the glowing embers of the fire. I feel lucky to know that I come from the lineage of such a woman, but I can’t help wondering how my life could have turned out differently if I could have known her growing up. I’d like to think I could have been a better person or at least made better choices if I had someone like her by my side. She was such a positive force in Sae’s life, you can see it glowing off of her as she speaks. I could have used that when my own life fell apart.

My maudlin thoughts are prevented from continuing by the crash of a door slamming open. Sae, Ana, and I all look over to the left side of the property where we see Haymitch stumbling down his back steps and across the lawn.

“Well what do we have here?” He drawls.

“Why look, it’s sweetheart! Nice to see you moved on from staring off into space to staring into large fires” He kicks an arrant log near the base of the firepit. “Speaking of which, why the hell are you lighting large ass fires in my back yard?”

“Oh sit down, boy, before you light your soused pants on fire,” Sae scolds. “And we’re in Katniss’ yard not yours. She’s gone and been working hard to make us some maple syrup,” she defends. “Now are you gonna’ crawl back into that disgusting hovel of yours to hide like a little mouse, or are you going to join us ‘round the fire as I tell my girlie here ‘bout how I became the most eligible girl in all the Seam?”

“HA! We’re telling tall tales then are we?” Haymitch quips back but plops down all the same.

“Laugh all you want, you fermented brat, but there I was nearin’ sixteen, and had a half-dozen proposals a day.” Sae smiles at the memory, “But I loved running my own business. I was free of my parents and in charge of my destiny for the first time in my life. I had absolutely no intention of givin’ that up for any soot-covered charmer too busy thinking with his stomach and lower regions. Years passed and I got quite the reputation for turning the boys down. I think they even had bets going on who’d eventually win me over.”

Haymitch snorts from the corner and Sae cuts him a glance that stops him cold in his tracks. Now, that is an impressive skill. I wonder if Sae could teach it to me someday.

“Well by the time I was nearing 21, Ronan had been spending close to two years coming to my counter. He was younger than me, smaller than most of the other miners, and a gentle soul. He never once made a pass at me, but had a way of making it clear that, to him, I was always the most important person in the room… probably ‘cause he couldn’t feed himself to save his life.” She smiles wistfully, “I won over his stomach, the rest just followed along.

“He’d started comin’ back at the end of the night to help me clean up and then escort me home. I’d finally had enough of his attentiveness one night - told him, point blank, I wasn’t interested and wouldn’t ever be interested. But all that silly boy did was ask if that meant he could still walk me home. I was so tongue-tied at his response, I threw my hands in the air and stomped ahead the rest of the way home while he calmly trailed behind. Once inside, a rant unlike any other began to flood out of my mouth. I colorfully blustered all about that ridiculous man to your Grandmother for fifteen solid minutes.”

“Wait, this one’s grandmother?” Haymitch cuts in. “You lived with Miss Lena?” I whip my head around to him, a dumbfounded look on my face. “Oh, no need to look at me like that, sweetheart. Everyone in the Seam knew Miss Lena Everdeen. The lady threatened to spank each of us boys at least once.”

“Mhmm, and you all deserved it. Cholena Everdeen took me in after my parents passed. Anyway, at some point, Ma Everdeen, got fed up with listening to my raving, picked up her cup of now-cold tea, and dumped it over my head mid-sentence.”

My jaw drops and Haymitch starts cackling. “Oh now that’s brilliant! Sweetheart! Hear that? Your morning wake up calls are a real chip off the ol’ block.” He laughs at his own joke and I blush a bit at the recognition. I’ve never shut someone up my grandmother’s way, but Haymitch is plenty familiar with a pitcher of water to the face when I’ve been left to wake him up. Maybe I’ve inherited more than I know.

“Your grandmother told me she thought it was obvious that I was getting all worked up into a frenzy talking about ‘young Master Ronan’. Said I was clearly hot and bothered and she had a maternal duty to cool me down. She gently patted my hair and face dry with a towel, then very softly, as if her words were floating on the wind as it tickled through the trees, said to me: ‘I can’t tell you whether that gentleman is the one for you, but I can tell you one thing. There are all types of partners, but you’ve got to find one who matches your needs.’ Said that that ‘some are like the great horned owl, a fierce protector providing for its mate while she is kept safely in the nest. And others are more like the dove, eager to build a nest together and to share in the protection of their home and brood. I see the dove spirit in Ronan,’ she said. Told me he was not a man who wanted to clip my wings - that he was proud of my work, my independence.” Sae’s voice thickens, “He just wanted to be the one I flew home to every night.”

Ana shuffles over and curls into Sae’s lap. Sae breathes in the smell of her granddaughter’s hair, “We were married by the next spring. And until the day he died, that silly man walked me home every night from my stall, so proud to be the soup wench’s husband.”

I can feel Haymitch’s eyes boring into me but I refuse to acknowledge his not too subtle inference. I stand up to check on the boiling sap. _Not everything comes down to me and Peeta’s relationship_. The liquid has simplified down to amber syrup. _Him and his stupid parachutes never did understand the concept of boundaries._ I refill the pot with more sap to repeat the process. _The old man needs to mind his own business._

“I’m sorry I never got to know him,” I gently tell Sae. She reaches over to grab my hand in gratitude as I pass.

“Your Pa took good care of me after he went. Maybe for Ronan’s sake but I think mostly in honor of Miss Lena. His visits always made the days less painful. And when he’d bring you, child, well you’d always liven up my stall. All the Hob looked forward to when your Pa would come by with you.”

“That could have something more to do with him holding the Seam together by his teeth,” Haymitch mutters.

I tip my head in question at that then look to Sae in silent query.

“Aye, he took responsibility for the people in the Seam seriously. Put together an unofficial community watch of men from the mines, encouraged your Ma to sneak healing where needed, and took to hunting more to slip food to those who were struggling. Lots of folks wouldn’t have survived some mighty harsh winters without him,” Sae gravely explains.

“I think it was a combination of having a child of his own and him becoming the head of the family after his folks passed. Lander knew the lore whispered about his family and after Lena and Leon died, he seem to feel compelled to… I don’t know… live up to it or carry it on,” Sae clarifies.

“Lore?” I ask pressingly. The surprise and irritation is apparent in my voice, I’m sure. What stories about my family? Seam whispers about my kin? Why hasn’t anyone ever told me? This is about my people, my blood. Did everyone know and just decide to keep it from me?

Sae exhales heavily, puffing her breath through pursed lips. “I don’t know child, you know the Seam. We love our stories and wives’ tales. Those stories were a core part of who we were and taught lessons to the youngins. Somehow your family name always seemed to finds itself whispered among the community - especially entwined in some of the wilder stories.” Sae’s voice drops, “I don’t know how much is true. Ma Everdeen never spoke directly about such things, but I will say I can see why the whispers started. The Everdeens and Rivers have never been quiet, traditional, law-abiding members of District 12.”

“Stop being so cryptic Greasy Sae,” Haymitch grunts. “Sweetheart, when I was a boy, there were all kinds of stories that would be told around the fire or whispered around the Hob. If you bothered to have any friends, you might have heard them as well.”

He brightens at his opportunity to gossip, “One that would often be told to little shits like me, was that when you were up to no good and felt the hair on the back of your neck standing up, that was a spirit of the Seam traveling on the wind. She would know that you were causing trouble. It was always believed that Miss Lena was the real spirit, especially with that spooky way she was always knowing everything.” He shivers at the thought.

He clears his throat, “Now the Everdeen men, we always use to pretend that they were the real folk behind the stories of the hooded outlaws. The ones who went to the forest to bring food to the hungry and stealing from the rich to give to the poor.”

Sae cackles and begins a lilting tune, “ _Come, all you brave children, and listen a while_.” Haymitch raises his flask to sky and shouts along with her, “ _With hey down, down and a down*.”_

“Bloody tune would always get stuck in my head,” Haymitch rumbles to which Sae lets out another stream of cackles.

“There were certainly enough stories for one measly Seam family, but you my child, things get a bit stranger when you go back even further to the stories about your grandma’s ma.” He brow furrows, “Honestly, they are even more so now that I think about all you’ve been through.”

“Spit it out old woman,” Haymitch snipes as he pokes at the fire with a stick he somehow procured. Excellent, now the man’s armed, just what we need.

He opens up his flask again, “I never heard any stories about Miss Lena’s ma. So what’s that addled head of yours making up now?”

“Oy, you miserable louse! I know for a fact you’ve heard the stories. Back in your day, ain’t no child in the Seam who didn’t grow up hearing the tales of the Blackbird of Death.”

Haymitch spews his liquor in shock, which promptly causes the flames to leap in excitement on contact with the alcohol. I scoot myself a bit farther back from the fire. This was supposed to be a simple day of simmering down sap, not an attempted arson.

“Are you telling me, that _this_ one,” Haymitch says as he points aggressively at me, “is the great granddaughter of the Winged Penance? The Sinner’s Crow? The Ladybird of Justice?”

“Oh, how the hell am I ‘spose know Haymitch. I just know what the older folk ‘round the Seam believed. Ridiculous names by the way,” Sae says rolling her eyes. “Talk of Raven Rivers was always done with reverence and a respectful dose of fear. Katniss, what do you know ‘bout your great grandma Raven?” Sae asks.

I’m dumbfounded. How many more discoveries of my own history can I possibly receive in one sitting?

“Nothing,” anger tints my voice, which I immediately regret. It’s not Sae’s fault I never knew any details about her. More gently I ask, “Her name was Raven?”

“Aye, child, Raven Rivers. From the way Ma Everdeen described her, I think you may look a lot like her actually. Hmm, strange really, the stories always spoke of a woman with eyes that glowed silver like the moon. Your father and grandmother shared your grey eyes, but yours have always shone a bit more silver, I could see someone likening them to the moon” Sae rambles off distantly in thought.

“I’m sorry,” Haymitch shouts dramatically, “I could care less about family genetics and the damned moon, I am still stuck on Sweetheart here being a descendant of _THE_ Blackbird. The bird borne from coal dust that metes out punishment to the worst of the Capitol. The bird that drove men mad. The bird that stood as a harbinger of death to all those who sought to harm innocents. No way, Sae. That’s just too much. That was just a tale told to both give out hope while also scaring the pants off us.”

“Oh calm down, you overgrown infant,” Sae says as she bats her hand, swatting his words away like mosquitoes. “All I know is that Raven lived through the first rebellion- had the scars and lung damage to prove it. Most believed she actively fought for the rebels. Lander once told me that he believed the district stories came from the truth that she was the one who figured out how to turn the jabberjays against the Capitol. Your Pa said Ma Everdeen use to tell him stories ‘bout how her mother could signal birds to greet her and was often found talkin’ to them as if they were old friends.”

“That’s not creepy at all…” Haymitch mumbles uneasily.

I’m still confused. “Wait, what were the stories?” I ask, hoping for some clarity. Why is Haymitch so unsettled by talk of my great grandmother? Nothing ever fazes the man.

“You want to tell her the tales? They clearly struck a chord with you, lad,” Sae sniggers to Haymitch.

“I can only speak to what stories I was told at my ma’s knee. Sounds like Sae here might have better knowledge of where it all came from,” Haymitch grouses. He rubs his face tiredly before beginning.

“According to Seam legend, in the early days of 12, the government sent a Head Peacekeeper to assert the new authority of the Capitol. He’d stomp out any remaining signs of the rebels and make it clear who was now in charge. This man was vicious like Thread, but also a predator like Cray. One day he beat and raped an orphan no older than thirteen - told her that if she spoke of what happened to anyone her brother would be hung in front of the justice building. Broken and distraught, the girl cried under a tree and whispered her sad story to the only thing she could: a bird as black as coal dust perched above on one of the tree’s branches.

“As the story goes, the next day, the Head Peacekeeper was woken by the screeching of a dozen birds. Everywhere the man went a murder of crows was sure to follow. They’d wake him throughout the night and dive down to claw him throughout the day. They were said to caw out his sins and mock him for his failures and, um, let’s call it _deficiencies_ , if you catch my drift. Made him look a fool and drove him mad. Within the week he shot himself. When the next Head Peacekeeper was sent, more violent that the last, the blackbirds again came to call, and the Peacekeeper met the same end. I think the story says that three Head Peacekeepers met the ‘Justice of the Crows’, before the fear of the birds caused the other Peacekeepers to go against Capitol instructions and quietly adopt more lax application of the law. My Ma use to say that the blackbirds are always watching, protecting the people of the Seam, but more importantly to her, also to serve out punishments to any bad little boys who didn’t behave.”

“How much of that is true?” I ask Sae.

“What I know for certain is that 12 went through several Head Peacekeepers in the years after the first rebellion. They kept kickin’ the bucket and eventually the rest of the Peacekeepers became so nervous they believed they’d be safer if they loosened up on the Capitol’s rules. Supposedly, that’s how the Hob was allowed to form and continue on – pure superstition. Now, if those Peacekeepers died in more supernatural ways or if Raven was some secret rebel agent bird-whisperer, I can’t say. But what I do know from the little that Lena ever confided about her Ma, is that Raven was a force of nature. Not even the strongest of the miners would dare quarrel with her. If anyone could turn Capitol mutts into her own personal army, I’d put my money on your great grandmother.”

Haymitch whistles through his teeth. “Well damn, you didn’t stand a chance did you?” I squint my eyes at his comment, not understanding his point.

“I mean, sweetheart,” he speaks slowly as if I’m dumb, “that with your stock, it seems like no matter what, you would have ended up at the center of this war. I mean, hell, born from the Blackbird line and armed like an Everdeen. I think the idea of destiny is bullshit, but I mean come on…” he trails off, “Psshh, I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“Oh you’re plenty drunk, you melodramatic miscreant,” Sae laughs, unfazed. “He may be some fancy Victor, but his Seam superstitions are still strong.” She turns more intently towards me, “Katniss, none of this really matters. If Ma Everdeen was here, all she would want you to know is that you do her ma proud in both your looks and your strength. Not to mention that voice of yours, the ones them mockingjays seem to love so much. That’s a gift passed down from Raven, to Cholena, to your Pa, and then to you, child.”

That calms me. I find I can’t dwell too much on the folklore surrounding my family, it’s too much, too bizarre. And like Sae said, none of that really matters. What does matter, is that despite them all being dead and gone, hearing these stories for some reason make me feel just a little less alone. I have a history, details on the family I was borne into. A family, it seems, that was something special – strange, but special.

“Hmph, I never understood that rot about your singing, sweetheart. I mean you sound nice I guess, but I thought the boy was just being his usually sappy self when he’d get all dreamy about the birds stopping to listen. Seemed like the kind of mushy crap he’d be poetic about. But actually seeing it happen in that propo… that was… I don’t know. It was really somethin’.”

“Mmm,” Sae nods, “magical almost. Ma Everdeen, she would sing little songs everywhere, like bits of sunshine sprinkled through your day, but your Pa, it was always magnificent when you heard him singin’. Stopped traffic, it did. He won himself a bride and with it won the Seam a healer.”

Her eyes mist over. “He sang the most beautiful song for my Ronan’s and my toasting. I so wish I could remember it. Sometimes I think I do in my dreams. I swear, I’d never heard anything so beautiful. Something ‘bout time in bottles and wishes. I used to hum it to little Anabel when she was just a babe.”

Sae drags her fingers through a dozing Ana’s hair. I know the song she’s speaking of, or at least I think I do. My father taught me so many of his favorites. I haven’t sang much since his death, but it doesn’t mean that when I was alone, I wouldn’t close my eyes and play those memories of him over and over in my head. I didn’t want to lose him, and singing, that was something that was always special between him and me.

I close my eyelids and lay back.

It wasn’t long before the accident at the mine that took him away. It was my tenth birthday and he had woken me up even earlier than usual to go out to the lake. It was warm for May and by the time we made it out there our sweaty clothes were uncomfortably clinging to us.

At the sight of the sparkling water, my father whooped and ran to the edge, stripping his shoes and shirt as he went. He had such life bubbling inside him. As the sun rose higher, we swam the morning away, fished, and even dug up some katniss in honor of the occasion. As we were drying in the sun, we finished the bottle of water he’d brought and he held it up to the sun, peering through the warped glass.

He told me about how people use to put letters in bottles and toss them into the sea to be carried to a stranger or maybe even to find their soulmate. He said some people would fill empty bottles with mementos of a special place to put above their fireplaces. He even said, long ago, there were supposedly people who figured out how to build tiny impossible boats inside bottles. If he wasn’t my father, I would have never believed him.

As he scooped up a handful of sand and some small pebbles that surrounded us, he began to sing.

I let the memory, the sunkissed warmth of it, wash over me as if I was still laying on the lakeshore instead of atop the icy ground.

My voice is quiet, I’m not even sure if I can by heard outside of my own head. The words come to me, an undammed river of lyrics that flow as if I’d only just learned them yesterday. The singer’s dreams of bottling up time the way you bottle up the grains of sand resonate with me much more now that I’m older. I remember Peeta’s wish of freezing a moment and living in it forever. How I wish I could have bottled up my happiest moments so I could visit them when things got bad. How I wish I could have made those days last forever and spend them with the ones I love most.

I know there are more words; a bridge or something that lilts like a rambling brook, but for now I stick to the melody and the melancholy it carries upon the wind.

As my voice drifts away, I allow my eyes to flutter open. I peek under my inky lashes to see Sae clutching at her heart with tears tracked down her cheeks. I panic, I didn’t mean for that to happen, “Oh no Sae, please, I’m sorry –“.

She stops my sputters with a fierce hug that steals my breath away. “Oh my girl,” she croons into my ear. “You will do no such thing. Apologizing for giving me something I’ve wished for years. You silly sweet girl,” she shakes her head into the crook of my neck.

She lifts her head and strokes my cheek. The touch warms through my skin all the way down to my toes. I like this feeling. I wonder if this is what a mother’s love feels like.

“Well,” Sae starts, shaking off her emotion, “I believe with that, I’m going to head in for the night. I look forward to seeing the final result of all this simmerin’ in the mornin’. Come on sleepyhead,” she huffs as she picks up a dozing Ana onto her hip.

Her eyes connect with mine one last time before she turns to leave, “Thank you. Truly.” I watch her figure shrink into the distance, subconsciously wiggling my toes to see if they still tingle with warmth.

I refill the boiling pot with more sap and add a few more logs to the fire. I glance over to find Haymitch looking at me as if he is examining some strange creature he’s captured under a glass.

“You seem better,” Haymitch says carefully.

“I’m… functioning,” I clarify.

“That’s what better looks like for us, sweetheart,” he says earnestly.

Minutes pass by, the two of us staring quietly at the flames, only the sound of syrup bubbling to fill the air between us.

“This is good, doing little stuff like this. I mean, I’m a selfish bastard, and am obviously looking forward to some syrup at the end of this, but I’m talking about you just doing little stupid stuff to get through the days. Boring tasks that start to eventually add up to resemble what life is supposed to look like I guess. Better than me at least, “ he finishes with a thick gulp of the last of his liquor.

A pair of sea-green eyes come to the front of my mind. A tanned handsome face, too chiseled in its perfection, only marred by the pressing fear for Annie as he ties knots into the night.

“ _It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart_ ,”* I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

Haymitch raises his eyebrows in question. He knows that isn’t something Katniss Everdeen would ever come up with.

“Finnick,” I say thickly.

He grunts and takes another swing only to be frustrated by its emptiness. He tosses the hallow vessel and swears under his breath. “It’s just not fair.”

To some it would seem like his comment is directed to the empty bottle, but the two of us know that it means a lot more. None of it is fair. It’d be easier to list the few things that have been fair. But at the top of this life’s injustices, is that our two sorry souls are still here living while Finn is gone. Just when his life finally became his own, it was torn to pieces. _Literally_ , I remind myself morbidly. _Not fair at all._

We sit for what feels like hours, night having fallen while we both are silently lost inside our own dark minds. Finally Haymitch stands up, groaning at the motions required.

“Katniss,” his use of my actual name startles me from my thoughts and I turn to his shadowed face as he stands above me.

“You know that with winter ending, our privacy here is about to end as well?” He asks without needing an answer. “If the idea of other people coming here has me on edge, I can guess how you feel about it with that socially adept personality of yours.”

_He just couldn’t resist slipping in an insult could he_ , I tell myself, as he stumbles towards his house. Haymitch stills and turns back towards me.

“There’s no stopping them, sweetheart, the best we can do is prepare and try to keep functioning”

* * *

_*Quote from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	3. CHAPTER III

CHAPTER III

I jolt awake at the sound of dishes clattering. Another nightmare or my internal clock woke me before sunrise, but the bed was so warm and my exhaustion from the late night prior still lingered. I couldn’t resist the urge to just slip away again, cocooned under thick blankets.

Sae’s presence downstairs means I stayed nestled for longer than I planned so I attempt to dress and wash up quickly. By now, she’s found the jars of maple syrup I finished late last night and left on the counter. I may have privately wanted to be there when she first saw them, but, nonetheless, I’ll enjoy seeing how she’ll put the syrup to good use. I shuffle towards the kitchen and watch from the doorway as Sae putters about. She has a spring in her step, which makes me suspect she may have already snuck a couple tastes. I shift my weight and the movement catches her eyes.

“There she is,” she cheers. “Don’t just stand there, come in, come in. And here, tuck in!” Sae thrusts me into a kitchen chair without discussion. “Have you tasted the glorious fruit of your labor? Oh my, it is a dangerous thing to have lying about,” she fires the words out like a machine gun. I can barely catch one before the next plows through.

She presents a bowl in front of me, “I truly didn’t know what to make with it, but I figured some hot oats couldn’t be too bad topped with some nuts and something sweet. Then again a straight spoonful of the stuff gets the job done,” she cackles, a bit maniacally in her sugar-high state.

The oats are creamy and comforting – like the way woolen socks feel, but in food form. The nuts add some crunch and the syrup makes the entire thing feel decadent. I’m rather glad I stayed in this morning so I didn’t delay getting to taste this.

Sae thinks she snuck that one final finger-full of maple syrup before she leaves, however her sticky lips as she smacks a kiss on my hairline on her way out gives her away. If the syrup wasn’t enough, all the lifting and lugging is well worth it if only to see Sae fluttering about like she’s got young knees again.

With her exit and breakfast complete, I’m left with the stark realization that I don’t know what to do next. The house is so quiet, so empty. No life inside, just memories and shadows, a coffin. It’s like me, but in wood and nails instead of flesh and bone. Sadness hits me like a wave, and I can feel it pull me down like a riptide.

_Don’t let it take you under, Katniss. If you let it pull you under who knows how long it’ll take to get back._ I breathe and try to anchor myself back in reality. A deep breath in and out. In and out. In. And out.

I ball my fists until I feel the crescents of my fingernails pressing into my palms. With a nod for confidence, I open my eyes with determination. _Find something to do Katniss._ What was it that Haymitch said? _Little boring tasks._ That’s right. I can do that.

My eyes land on the plant book sitting where I left it next to the couch. I’ve always thought of it as my father’s plant book, but really, looking at the cobbled together bundle of torn and mended pages intermixed with scraps of different colored sheets and addendums, calling it a book is a stretch. Thinking of it as my father’s is also not quite accurate. Yes, I watched him devotedly adding to the book, expanding on old pages and adding in his own, but the book was originally from my mother’s side of the family.

I settle into my usual nook in the corner of the couch and pull my legs up to curl under me. I flip open the front cover and feel the aged texture of the original pages. They are more yellowed and the paper has a finer texture than the pages my father added over the years. The handwriting is a collection of elegant fonts, with curls and loops that would never be mistakenly identified as an Everdeen hand. Definitely townie font.

The plant book, in its original form, was a notebook offering wisdom and advice from one generation of the town’s apothecarist to the next. At a young age, my mother was given the book to study so she would be prepared to take over the family business with her husband once she wed. And Mother did just that. For over a decade, she learned everything she could, trained at her father’s side, and became the best healer in the district only for it all to be taken away due to her choice of husband.

My parents never spoke about it, but the Seam is full of gossips and plenty of townies have made enough snide comments for me to fill in most of the blanks. I am positive that they were completely and genuinely in love with each other, but since then, I’ve struggled to not see my parents’ romance as two love struck fools who provided a soap opera to their entire district. _How terribly ironic._

The class divide of 12 has been a strong and prejudiced part of daily life. Townies are taught that the Seam is crass, uneducated, violent, and only good for the manual labor of the mines and the Seam looked at Town like soft, spoiled brats who have never known a hard day’s work. Much like the Capitolites were taught to look at the District citizens. Anger and distrust pushed towards each other instead of toward Snow where it was deserved.

My parents defied the acceptable mixing of classes. Mother became the warning Seam fathers told their sons as their hormones begin to rage. A tempting Town rose was too dangerous to pluck. It’s a dream with no happy ending. And Pa was a textbook example of a Town mother’s warnings to their maiden daughters: a handsome, rugged charmer from the wrong side of the tracks. He came and wooed the beauty of her family, stealing her away from her intended, the well-established baker’s son. The only result of such a choice is the beautiful daughter’s permanent shunning by her family. She was no longer welcome; she was Seam now. It was the only place for her. Because of course the Seam trash would never be allowed to help run the family business in Town. Pa was from the Seam, the only place he would ever belong was in a mine.

When my mother accepted my father’s proposal, she was immediately turned out of her home and told never to return. She was only allowed her clothing and a few toiletries, but her mother, my grandmother I suppose, wrapped the family plant book in a nightgown and snuck it into her bag. From what I can gather, it was either her final gesture of affection for her now-lost child or her first gesture of sabotage to the new heir of the business - her husband’s sister’s family, whom she always loathed.

Whether a show of kindness or not, that book helped my mother establish herself as a healer and armed my father with more knowledge on how to gather valuable herbs she would require to begin an unofficial apothecary. She became the most trusted medical provider in the district, much to her aunt’s family’s eternal annoyance. And even though the Town families would never publicly accept her again, she still had steady stream of late night calls secretly requesting her services in their hour of need.

In my memory, I don’t recall my mother ever opening the book. It always seemed to make her sad when she’d see it out. I believe she handed it over to my father to continue building in her stead so she wouldn’t have to be reminded of her family’s betrayal. She began keeping her notes in separate private journals she would eventually use to train Prim.

She wore the struggle well. Mother stuck out in the Seam. With her fair hair and fine features, there was no hiding she didn’t belong. She was lucky to bring such a talent with her. The community welcomed her out of need and gratitude. If she didn’t offer such good fortune to the folk there, I’m not sure she could have borne the isolation.

There was always something that nudged at me though, like a splinter invisible to the eyes but throbbing all the same. Before Prim was born, I have distinct memories of my mother walking with me through town for her weekly errands. She’d clasp my small hand tightly and keep her head down while town folk would huddle up to point and gossip, the bolder ones making rude comments as we passed.

After Primrose was born, my father always found a way to take me out when the weekly errands came around.

I always wondered if it was cover for mother preferring to be seen with Prim. With my olive skin, dark hair and grey eyes, I was a walking product of her mingling with a Seam boy whereas Prim looked every bit the delicate angel of a town girl. I noticed the grave face my mother once wore after her town trips with me lightened and relaxed with the daughter swap. Between Primrose’s sweetness and her delicate looks, shopkeepers adored her, likely choosing to overlook or even question her paternity.

I never understood how Peeta could be so oblivious to the ocean that divided us. We were too different, from opposite worlds. Yet he was completely untroubled at the idea of the two of us breaking the societal walls between us. He knew from the stories of my own parents the consequences of such radical thinking. He would have lost his family, his beloved bakery. I know his mother was never shy with her insults; I was Seam trash, nothing more. He was so blithe and unbothered at all he risked, just for some girl he’d never spoken to but irrationally fell for when she sang in a little red dress. Sweet openhearted Peeta. It was never a question for him.

It never made any sense to me.

Flipping through the oldest of the entries, I see familiar names from the dozens of jars and vials in the study. I offered the room to my mother to use for storing her supplies and herbs, which she did so immediately and immaculately. She was delighted to have such a large and elegant space, all her own, to meticulously organize and the available funds to properly stock supplies.

I suppose I ruined the meticulous organization she worked so hard to achieve. The last time I set foot in that study was to have a fight with a large cantankerous cat. I may have thrown some things. Those things may have hit other things. Shattered glass, crying, meowing, all very dramatic. Not my finest hour.

Buttercup, ever the survivor, had somehow escaped the confines of 13 and survived what should be an impossible trek back to 12. Seeing him there temporarily snapped me out of the early beginnings of my introspection and all of my locked up emotional turmoil came pouring out. After mourning together, us two feral busted-up beasts, I shut the door to the upturned room and haven’t returned since.

I should sweep up the mess I left behind. Sweeping: boring and normal. I can do that. And while I right the room, I can look at what supplies my mother has left behind. Then when the springtime blooming begins, I’ll have a new task to keep an eye out for local trimmings to add to the stores. After the past year, I have no intention of seeing a doctor or entering a hospital ever again, so I best learn how to manage on my own. Between the book and my mother’s stockpile, I have the means to do so.

I start opening and closing closet doors, attempting to find the broom. How embarrassing that I don’t know where anything is in my own home. When I open the smallest closet near the kitchen a worn handle of a broom tumbles out. I catch it before it whacks me in the head, grumbling under my breath. Betrayed by my own cleaning supplies.

I pull open the study doors and enter without thought, barely making it two steps into the room before my entire body recoils backward. On my first inhale I gag. _Roses._

Turning over my shoulder and spinning around ready to strike, I forget my only weapon at the moment is the pathetic broom in my hand. My eyes bolt around looking for the threat. What is it now, more malicious deliveries and messages designed to unhinge me? Mutts left to tear me to pieces?

My breathing is shallow, more gasps than breaths, barely able to inhale past the panic, and my heart has decided to attempt jumping out of my chest cavity by sheer force. Snow threatened me in this room before. _Where is it?_

During the post-victory interview, Snow presented a bouquet of his mutated pink and red roses. After the bombing of 13, he dropped them as a warning: my actions have consequences and Peeta was the one paying that price. He left the white rose on my dresser to remind me: he knew exactly where I was and was watching my every move. Then, he sent vicious lizard men hissing _Katnisssss_ to _r_ emind me: although I’m the only one he wants, he has no problem tearing apart anyone who stands in the way.

I can hear the dripping of the pipes and feel the ash from the explosives coating like a second skin. The Leegs, Jackson, leg-less Boggs, Masala frozen in the beams, Finnick and his beautiful head ripped from his body, the majority of my team dead because of me. All my fault. All my fault. My fault. My fault. Dead, dead, dead, de-

No.

NO.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen._ I gasp air harshly into my lungs.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I am seventeen years old. I… I was in the 74 th and 75th Hunger Games – shit what is next?_

Deep breaths. Focus. _District 12. My home is District 12. There is no District 12… was no District 12... I am in District 12. I was the Mockingjay. We brought down the Capitol. Snow is dead. Coin is dead. My sister is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead._

_NO._

Another deep breath in and out. And again: in and out.

_Prim was killed. I shot Coin. Paylor is president. Peeta was hijacked. I don’t know where Peeta is. Where is Peeta? We’re supposed to protect each other, Peeta. How am to do that when they keep separating us?_

_See you at midnight._

_See you at midnight._

_See you at midnight._

The clock. Midnight. Lightning. My head throbs in pain. I look down at my arm. Why am I bleeding? _Oh yes, Johanna, and her damned axe. Allies my ass_. The trees swim in and out of my vision.

“Peeta!” I call out into the blurry jungle. I’m so thirsty. My throat feels like the beach where I just kissed him and yet it’s humid, everything is moist and uncomfortable, trickling down necks, and backs, and thighs. Another bolt of lightning strikes. I swallow past the grating sand. “Peeta!”

I have to find him. I promised I’d keep him alive. I can’t reach him. I promised. He was the one who was supposed to make it. _How could I fail him? Peeta, don’t let them take you away from me._

I run into a hard object and tumble to the floor.

_A desk?_

Why would the Gamemakers put a desk in the Arena?

I blink and my vision widens to a larger room, a study, my study. _What?_

I roll on my back expecting to see the domed sky of the arena but it’s just plaster.

Deep breath in. And out. In… and out.

My hip aches from the impact of the desk’s corner, but why does my back hurt? I try to roll over but I’m stopped by... shards of glass? _Glass?_

Yes, now I remember: a study, a cat, and the broken bottles of my mother’s herbs. I carefully turn my head to look at the bed of glass I’ve chosen to fall upon. Amongst the glass, clumps of ginger root and scattered nettles swim in a sea of petals. Rose petals.

_Damn it._ Not Snow roses, wild rose petals for my mother’s syrups and salves. The floral odor is so similar, yet _his_ roses were always sickeningly sweet. Cloying and somehow sterile like a hospital.

_I’ve got to get out of here_.

Forcing myself through the pain of rolling over and standing up, I don’t think as I my legs begin to pump. They push me out of the room, down the hallway, and through to the living room. Next thing I know I am standing barefoot in the dirt road of Victors Village.

I’m wet, more like soaked. _When did it start raining?_ Washed of the scene from the study and free from the tendrils of rose scent that clung to me, my fists squeeze into the fabric of my sweater, ringing out a flood of water as I begin to anchor myself into reality again.

The rain pounds down, cold pellets tapping a rapid beat on my skull. Bright white lightning strikes and my bones attempt to leap out of my skin _. So that was real._ Not Gamemaker lightning, real lightning. Real lightning, real rain, real desks, real rose petals. The thunder begins to rumble in its wake. It shakes the ground under my muddy toes. Or maybe I’m shaking so hard it only feels that way. I lift my eyes, blinking against the patters of raindrops. My lashes trap droplets like a fisherman’s net. I just want to feel safe. Why can’t I ever just feel safe?

I miss the smell of cinnamon and dill.

Sure Gale was tall and strong and smelled of the forest, but his grasp was always flexed and repressive, his hackles up like a riled up wolf. But Peeta, Peeta always smelled so sweet. I would close my eyes, push my nose into the hallow of his neck, and breathe in the aroma of baking that seeped deep into his pores, feeling my lifetime of hunger settle content. When my nightmares would send me into uncontrollable shivers, he’d hold me tight, somehow bestowing all his body heat into my bones. It would radiate around the both of us like one of his ovens, our own hearth protected from the rest of the world.

I turn to face the dark and empty structure that once was Peeta’s home. This could be any of the homes in Victor’s Village. Nothing about it bespeaks its owner yet I feel as if a rope is knotted around my stomach tugging me towards the house. I look over my shoulder to Haymitch and Sae’s homes. I couldn’t bear having to talk about this, especially to either of them.

If his house is laid out the same way Haymitch and mine are, there should be a window in the living room’s eastern wall perfectly sized for me to slip through. Running through the rain, I leap over puddles as I approach the property. Once at the house, I stick to the shadows until I reach the window I hoped to find.

I’m still shaking and my rain-slicked hands struggle to grasp the bottom of the frame. I am counting on Peeta’s trusting nature to not think it necessary to bolt his windows. Then again, thinking he wouldn’t be seeing this place again anyway, would he be more like me? Why lock up when you were about to die in an arena?

I use my body weight to thrust open the window enough to fit through and ungracefully flop into the living room. Thankfully I wasn’t going for a quiet entry. My eyes quickly adjust to the unlit room, recognizing similar furniture and fixtures to my own home. Ignoring the layer of dust, what I immediately notice is the lack of personal touches. No pillows from home, no pictures hanging on the walls, nothing on the mantle. The room doesn’t look the least bit lived in, preserved exactly as it came when we first arrived. The knot around my stomach tightens. He was alone in this big empty house. He could no longer stay in his childhood home and his family wouldn’t join him here. Whatever it is that makes a house a home, it never happened here.

The soles of my muddied feet press into the hardwood floors leaving footprints in my wake. I move up the stairs very much aware the house’s eerie silence. Every step feels amplified, echoing into all corners of the building.

I enter the bathroom, off the upstairs landing, to grab a towel to dry off. His bathroom is identical to mine, except that the shower stall has a handrail and seat. It must have been installed following the Games and his amputation. He was always careful to cover up his leg. It seemed odd to me that the boy who had absolutely no qualms about stripping for all of Panem in the first Games would be so careful about an artificial leg. Especially with me. I made it through his puss and blood poisoning, why on earth would his fake leg be a cause for more concern than that?

The bathroom is clean with only a few partially used bottles arranged neatly in a row. A towel hangs from a hook near the shower stall’s glass door. I pull off my waterlogged outer layer and lift my camisole to tentatively seek out the remaining shards of glass still embedded in my beck. Locking my jaw, I pull out the few rogue pieces before drying off my face, limbs, and hair then returning to the hallway.

The next room should be a bedroom with a large window overlooking the backyard just as Prim’s room does. Instead there’s a room of white sheet covered canvases and easels. They stretch wall-to-wall like a room full of ghosts. My fingers itch with curiosity to lift them and see what he has captured, but I resist the urge. The chances of the subject matter upsetting me are not unexpected. Plus, I’m crossing enough lines as is.

My eyes catch the splattering of paint speckled across the walls and floor where he must have gotten carried away. He could get so wrapped up in his work and it was always hard to look away when he was that intense. I smile at the image my mind conjures of him covered in paint working feverishly. He’d thump about noisily and leave a mess in his wake. I’m not sure how long I stay standing in the doorframe watching my imaginary Peeta before shaking myself out of it and stepping away.

I pad down the hallway to the door standing ajar. Pushing it open, I realize this must be Peeta’s room. The bed hasn’t been made which makes me feel he could walk right through that door any minute as if he’d been here all along. Next to an empty tea mug, a sketchpad sits on his nightstand, two meticulously drawn eyes sparkling up from the paper. I let my fingers brush across the page, but like the canvases, I let Peeta’s private thoughts stay private.

I pick up the wrinkled quilt, pull it to my nose, and inhale. Warmth fills me, spreading out from that knot in my stomach. I wrap my arms around the material and squeeze tighter as tears begin to well in my eyes. I remember a night on the train, months ago, when we were barreling towards the Quell. Peeta had transformed into our despot of a trainer and I missed him more than ever. When he finally opened his arms I walked straight into them and was hit with immediate relief. It had been months since he’d been remotely close to me, and his warmth leapt into my bones. In that moment, I allowed myself to cling tightly with both hands, knowing it was one of the last.

I curl up on the bed and wind myself in the fabric. Peeta once said his nightmares were about losing me. I imagine now they are still about me, but instead of him fearing for me, I am making him afraid.

“ _She’s a liar! You can’t believe anything she says! She’s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!”_ *

It’s probably best he hates me now. Nothing good happens to the people that get close to me. No matter how hard I try to protect the ones I care about, something about me invites destruction. Sometimes I feel as if the woods call out to me, telling me to leave and never look back. It’d be best for everyone if I just disappeared into the wilderness.

I lay there frozen, lost in memories and watching the rain continue to hammer down. His bed is next to a window that overlooks the main road. I realize from this angle, with my head positioned on his pillow, I can see across the road to where my own room is situated. I try to tell myself it could just be a coincidence, but I know better. There are several much nicer rooms he could have chosen but didn’t and I doubt the bed was originally positioned here. He couldn’t sleep through the night just like I couldn’t, and since we couldn’t keep watch next to each other, he silently did so from here.

Like always, Peeta’s undemanding affections hit like a knee to the gut. I spent years building up an emotional armor and he goes around just giving his love away freely.

The clock ticks away, the hour hand journeying across its numbers. Eventually, the rainfall slows and I know I have over stayed. I should run back now before the next deluge begins. Looking at the sky I know it won’t be long until the skies reopen. I redress in my damp layers and take one last look around, but then snatch the quilt from the bed. _I’m taking this with me_. It’s not like anyone will miss it and it will save me the embarrassment of another breaking and entering. I fold up the quilt and tuck it into my arms, shielding it from the light sprinkling of rain with my body.

As I walk back into my house, I take a moment to look around. I may be entirely alone but this house still holds on to the bits and pieces that make it feel like a home. Sometimes the remnants of my sister, the imprints she left in each room, stab at my heart, but other times they anchor me to her and it’s the only comfort I can find. Despite the short time we settled here, this space feels lived in, personal touches littered about without design. Handmade items, worn books, old photographs. Before my Victor’s wages, we may not have had much, but we were creative.

I place the blanket on the table and cross over to the pile of letters that has been steadily growing larger on the mantle since I returned to 12. I have pointedly refused to acknowledge it, declaring it an anathema. Sae quickly realized I believed no good would come from anything in that pile. Half of the letters look official, like government mail. I definitely want nothing to do with anything in those. I push aside the stuffier looking letters or those addressed using ridiculous formal titles that are worthy of an eye roll. Some look like more casual correspondences but from unfamiliar hands, maybe from a Cressida or Annie or maybe even Hazelle. I don’t know for sure whom they could be from so I’d rather not risk it. There are a handful of envelopes that are wildly colored and heavily scented. I could tell a mile away that those are from my stylists and Effie. The overdramatic flourishes and scrolling on two of the golden envelopes confirms my hunch that Effie is checking in on one of her Victors. I may read these someday when I am in the mood for a laugh and have the energy to cope with their histrionics.

Finally there are three letters, one in a shakier version of Peeta’s hand. There’s no question of its author. The letter is light, a short note on everyday paper, but it weighs as heavy as I imagine one of his flour bags. There’s no way I’m opening this. It is like a tiny explosive, a holo, waiting for its trigger word. I place the letter on its own to the far left of the now-divided mound.

Last are two letters – my mother’s letters. One must have been delivered but the other is the letter Haymitch pulled from his jacket pocket upon our return to 12. The letter where I knew my mother wouldn’t be coming to be with me. I didn’t need to read it. Between its delivery method, a frank knowledge of my mother, and a lifetime of disappointed hopes, I understood what was happening.

I add her more recent letter to the pile but hold that first cream-colored envelope in my hands. _Katniss_ is carefully written across the front.

I’d like an explanation. I think I deserve one. Maybe in her letter she makes sense of it. Maybe it will calm the bitter ache in my heart when I think of my mother’s abandonment. Again. Can a person be re-abandoned? I want so much to not hurt when I think of her. Maybe the letter will help. Maybe she has a plan or at least a hope to have a plan. Using my forefinger, I slide it under the flap, tearing open the seal to release the letter.

* * *

_*Quote from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	4. CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER IV

> Dear Katniss,
> 
> I am sorry. By now you’ve realized that I’m not coming back with you to 12.
> 
> As soon as the judge declared your sentencing I knew that I would have to ask Haymitch to take my place. He understands you and will be a better fit than I ever would.
> 
> I can’t possibly live in that district, with its ghosts and its emptiness and memories. I can’t be in that house, so filled with my precious Primrose. I’d see her everywhere, all the time, and it would be your father all over again. It was always your home anyway. I was just allowed to live there. My home died seven years ago in those mines.
> 
> I’ve spoken to Annie, the sweet Victor from 4, and am planning to move back to her district to help her prepare for the baby. Did you hear that wonderful news? She’s lost her husband too and I think I will be good for her. District 4 has a large hospital in need of experienced healers and I think it would be a good fit for me. I always wanted to see the ocean.
> 
> We both know you haven’t needed me for years. At eleven, I looked at you and could see your father’s eyes glaring back at me in disappointment. I don’t think I can go through that again. We both will be stronger apart. We can make a fresh start.
> 
> Please write or call to tell me how you’re doing.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Mother

As I read through each line, my hands grip tighter around the parchment. She thought Haymitch would be the best thing for me? I would laugh if I weren’t so angry.

Sure Haymitch has kept me alive, but he’s never once made it pleasant. I know he cares, though he’d never openly admit to it, but there is not one care giving bone in his body. This is the man who threatened to screw a headset into my skull. Haymitch stabs first, asks questions second. He’s got his own issues and a year’s worth of drinking to catch up on, and I don’t begrudge him for it. He’s earned the right.

Haymitch _, ha._ I was tossed away like a foundling at the nearest drunk she could find.

And if she hates this house, how does she think I feel in it alone? If it weren’t for Sae, my only companions would be the ones that haunt me. She’s got my father and Prim? At least she doesn’t have the children of the Games, a pile of Victors, a Star Squad, and the ghosts of the thousands of dead citizens of 12 or 8 or 2, you pick, all endlessly haunting her. They constant follow me, an ever-present reminder that my actions led to their deaths.

I can’t describe how cutting the rest of her letter feels. Maybe what hurts the most is that I can tell she genuinely seems to think her words wouldn’t hurt me in any way. Does she think I’m that callous and cold?

I spent years wishing for a mother who loved me, I should be used to the disappointment. I provided for her when the depression was more than she could bear. I kept her fed and bathed and warm and safe. I watched her, after years of mental absence, slowly return to us, only for her last shreds of motherly affection to focus entirely on Prim. The gentle touches and maternal care saved for Prim, as if she took one look at me and decided it was too hard or too late for me.

And although part of me is thankful on behalf of Finnick’s memory to know that Annie and their child won’t be alone, it is yet another example of my mother choosing the gentler, sweeter daughter, one bursting with life. And surly broken Katniss, with 12-inch thick walls built around her, silent to the world, no life left, just walking death, is alone. Why am I so easy to give up?

One drop slides down my face and then another follows in its tracks. I can’t seem to stop the tears as they fall like the rain outside. The fact that this hurts me so much just makes me madder. I know better. Why would I have hoped for anything else? I thought I had adapted and built myself stronger. I thought I made myself impenetrable, confident that I no longer needed my mother’s affection. But if I didn’t need it, it wouldn’t hurt so much when it passed me by once again. Obviously, that was just a lie I told myself, because all those old wounds are still fresh as they ever were.

I want my momma. Like a child, I just want to be held so tightly I’d know I wouldn’t slip away into smoke. I want someone who loved my little duck just as much as I did, who understands the gaping Prim-shaped hole I now feel inside me chest. How it constantly claws at me from the inside out. I want someone who knows what a loss of this magnitude means; someone who has lived through the daily fight of getting up to find any will to carry on. She’s already been too close to the edge; she could help me learn how to stop listening to that seductive pull of depression. Why don’t I deserve that? Why does it always go to someone else?

I drop the now-crumpled letter as if it’s on fire. This is why I don’t read them. They only cause harm. My breathing is still shaky as I try and hold in the sobs that ache to burst forth. _Stop it, Katniss._ I refuse to fall apart over this.

I pull off my still-damp clothing and pick up the pilfered blanket. Draping it around me, I wrap myself in its smell. Peeta would hold me so tightly after one of my nightmares. It anchored me and, though I’d never admit it, I reveled in the feeling that someone treasured me. I never realized how, since my father died, I’d never had anyone to hold me that way. I loved being able to feel so small and yet so safe in someone arms.

That’s how I always held Prim, scooped up like the most precious thing in the world, because I knew, without a doubt, that she was. She was mine, the one precious gift in my life.

I walk up the stairs draped in the quilt, its length trailing behind me like the train of one of Cinna’s gowns. Standing in front of the room I have kept locked since returning to 12, I rest my forehead against the smooth panel of the door, right hand resting but not brave enough to turn the knob. Buttercup meows behind me, knowing whose room is behind this door. He pads over and rubs his head against it, requesting entry. In one quick movement, I steel myself and push the door open.

Dust lightly coats the surfaces of the room, but other than that, it looks exactly as Prim left it. The bed is unmade. She was always forgetting that, or, more likely, was always refusing to remember. I can almost hear her little voice, _“But Katniss, why should I when we’re only going to mess it up again tonight. The two of us are the only ones that would ever know!”_

_The two of us. The two. Not anymore_ , I think as my chest constricts.

I need to feel small again.

I seek out the nearest closet, my old friend, and curl up on the floor. In District 13, closets meant safety. There can’t be any threats in such a closed space. Three are solid walls leaving only one point of entry for an attack. Like the cave in the first Games, the dark tight quarters became a place of refuge. In the Games, it was refuge from the inevitability of our impending death, in 13 it was refuge from the politics and expectations to perform, and here, here it’s refuge from a world that doesn’t know what to do with me anymore. Hell, I don’t even know what to do with me. And we all are secretly thinking the same thing: it would have been much easier if I just died like I was supposed to.

I drift away, sleeping fitfully but too worn out for any of my usual full-fledge nightmares. Some hours later, I wake to the sound of the closet door opening, my body coiling like a viper preparing to strike.

Sae looks down at me, aged face strained and lips tightened. Her eyes scan my body, likely checking for injuries. She sighs sadly and then leaves the room, cracking but not closing the closet door behind her. I remain in my sanctuary, listening to the sounds of Sae working downstairs. I float in and out of the fog of my mind. Although it feels like minutes, somehow hours pass by.

Eventually, I hear soft footsteps carefully approaching the closet door. I wait, expecting to see the door open again to Sae’s face, but am surprised to hear a tiny tapping much lower down on the opposite side of the door. I pull an arm out from under the warm quilt, and gently push the door open with my fingertips.

Sitting on the floor on the other side of the frame, is the tiny body of Anabel. In front of her is a bowl of broth with a large spoon. There are splashes of the liquid on the floor like a trail of fallen breadcrumbs mapping out her journey. Her wide eyes look at me expectantly, pushing the bowl towards me challengingly.

Picking up the spoon, I can’t help but let a corner of my lips turn upward. Ana looks so pleased with the success of her mission and is basking in her win. Sae has always been a smart one. Wiley. She would run laps around the men of this district, masterminding events all while sporting the perfect visage of an innocent old widow. She knows me well - too well. Sae was there when I would come in with my father, she was there when I was left to fend for the family after his death, and she was even there when I needed someone to quietly sit with between my stays in the Capitol. That sneaky woman knows that I’d never have the heart to reject Ana’s offering the same way I would if it came from anyone else. Wiley.

With the closet door now open, I can see the sun is already high in the sky. I must have spent the morning in my haven and Sae wouldn’t allow for me to skip another meal. The broth does its job, reminding me of the hunger that had somehow been forgotten during the past period of sadness and solitude.

I notice Anabel studying my closet sanctuary, curiosity shining through her eyes. I hold out a hand and invite her in to sit with me. Once inside, she examines the boxes piled around us, but is immediately drawn to a small doll placed at the top of a box of toys.

The doll is one I purchased for Prim after the Games. Its dark hair and dark eyes appear borne from the Seam. It matched a smaller doll that perfectly resembled Prim – two miniature sisters just like the two of us. But the elder doll is here alone. Does she know her other half is gone? How long will she sit in this closet waiting for her sister to return to her?

The doll is scads nicer than anything we had growing up. Certainly finer then the doll I made Prim for her eighth birthday out of scraps of old fabric and hay.

Anabel reverently runs her fingers across the doll’s smooth face. This may be the first time she’s ever seen something so fine, let alone been allowed to touch it. She looks up at me with an obvious question in her eyes, and I give her a small nod granting permission in return. I pull her onto my lap and we sit together in silence; Ana’s fingers combing through the dolls hair and my own combing through hers. My head is somewhere else, memories of a fairer-haired child in this same position, so I don’t hear Sae approaching.

“I know how much you miss her,” she says kindly. I tighten my hold on Ana.

“I saw how desperately you wanted to protect her when things got bad after your pa passed.”

She sits on the edge of the bed across from the closet. “Every day, I watched as you bargained and traded anything you could find to keep her with food in her belly. And don’t think I didn’t notice you giving your portions to her. It was clear to those of us well acquainted with starvin’. She stayed rosy-cheeked while you paled and thinned. Us mothers recognized those sacrifices as the kind you only make for one of your own children. We recognized and respected it.”

She leans in, braced down on her knees. “You went from her sister to her mother in that moment. It was a fact agreed upon by the whole community and it was a mighty hard truth for your ma to swallow once she started to come back. In our eyes, she lost most of the right to call you two her daughters.”

She holds out her wrinkled hand for me to clutch onto.

“You did everything you could for that little girl. No one could’ve done more to protect her.” Her grip tightens. “No one, you hear me? You fed her, you cared for her, hell, you even tried to die for her. Long before that Reaping, you went and stopped living for yourself, and you lived for her.”

Tears silently flood down my cheeks. I did. Living for her is all I’ve ever known for such a very long time. I woke up every morning with the sole aim of spending the day ensuring she was provided with whatever she needed and went to sleep each night making a list of what she still lacked. I felt good when she looked happy. I measured my success by her health. That’s how I judged whether I was living a worthwhile life.

I don’t know how to live for myself _._ I must have at one time, but I can’t remember what it was like to wake up without that responsibility, that vocation. How does one do that? I don’t even know where to start.

“Well child, my knees aren’t what they used to be, so I won’t be climbing down and joining this closet party. Do you think you can help an old lady out? You don’t have to leave her room, but I’d like if I could get you into the bed for the rest the day. And I think your back might appreciate it come tomorrow morning.”

I swallow thickly and give an infinitesimal nod.

Anabel climbs off of my lap and I slowly stand trying to find my balance. My legs must have started to go numb and the feeling of the blood returning to them scatters about like pins and needles. Sae helps to ease me onto the mattress and Anabel begins to tuck in the doll beside me. I laugh under my breath handing the doll back to her, “Keep it. I know you’ll take good care of her.”

Her bright smile attempts to chase away the gloominess that surrounds me. For just one moment, I feel better. I feel that warmth that flooded me every time I saw Prim glowing up at me with gratitude. I feel something akin to happiness, some strange distant cousin of happiness. Satisfaction. Satisfaction at being able to provide something to someone in need. It was just for a moment, a beat of a butterfly’s wings, but it’s worth it.

_Could this be what I live for?_

Maybe I can’t be one of those normal people. I don’t know how to answer the simple question: what do I want? Perhaps I was born different or perhaps I was forcibly molded by the harsh world that surrounded me. If I can’t teach myself how to live for myself, is it so bad to live for others? I can try to numb my own pain by easing that of others. By losing myself in the care of others, might I someday find myself in return?

Maybe if I spread it out amongst many, instead of just one person, like my Primrose, it won’t be such a fragile thing. Completely building a life around one person has proven to be too dangerous.

But spreading it out would require letting more people inside the thick fortress that I’ve built around myself. More people means more potential for pain. I’m not a huge fan of that idea.

How am I supposed to handle that dichotomy? The constant contradiction of being close enough to reach out but not close enough to be vulnerable. I hate that pain. I feel it with my father, my sister, even my mother though she’s still alive. When I wasn’t so angry with Gale, I felt it pulling at me, as if I owed it some priority over others. And I hated myself when I allowed it to happen so strongly with Peeta, after specifically trying to prevent those emotional attachments. And yet he still tethered himself into the fiber of my being. I knew what would happen, I saw it with my mother after my father’s death. Despite every effort, it still hurt like hell when I lost him.

I know I need to let people in. I need to have a reason to keep going on, to prevent me from going into the woods and never returning. And I’ve proven far too many times that “for my own good” just won’t cut it.

Then again, why let people in when all I’ve learned is that they will eventually leave me. So here I stay, two survival instincts warring within me.

Sae pulls the covers up around my shoulders and pulls the crumpled letter from her pocket.

“Sometimes the people we love fail us, Katniss.”

She slowly swipes away an escaped tear from my cheekbone.

“Your ma hasn’t been able to see beyond her own pain for years. That is her fault, not yours.” She bends over and kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender I barely recognize it. “You remember what Ma Everdeen told me: _we’re family now_. We’re not going anywhere.”


	5. CHAPTER V

CHAPTER V

That night I dream of mothers. Of mine constantly leaving me because of my hardened personality and Peeta’s constantly hurling abuses at him for his soft one. Neither of us able to change who we are, but wishing we could. If only we’d be good enough for them. Between the four of us, we have two mothers that should have protected their children and two children who protected each other instead. First with burnt bread, then with caves and kisses, then handfuls of berries, marriages and false pregnancies, a pearl, propaganda, and promises to _stay always._ It’s not a good or bad dream, but it is an honest one. And as stories go, the ending is a pretty sad one.

The sound of rolling thunder is the first thing that I become aware of. With my eyes still closed, I listen to the steady pounding of rain against the roof. Once I sit up in bed, I soon realize that I’m not in my own. _Prim_. I look around at the knickknacks and treasures she has accumulated and displayed across the walls: a faded ribbon, a glass figurine, a bouquet of dried lavender. My favorite, a press clipping of the two of us clutching onto each other as we reunite on the train platform following the first Games. Her life is displayed across the room like a museum exhibit.

As my head completes its path from right to left, I notice a worn notebook on her bedside table. But it isn’t the book that makes me stop; it’s the blue eyes peeking back at me. I reach for the small book, and let it fall open revealing the image in its entirety. Two smiling faces in precise colored pencil strokes I would recognize anywhere. Peeta drew this. Drew this from memory by the look of it. The image is too precise, too filled with miniscule details and genuine emotion. It’s clearly a precious moment in time that he’d gone back to capture forever.

Prim holds out an over-decorated cupcake, a mash of bright colors and sprinkles. It is so purely Prim. Her face beams with pride at her creation. Frosting coats her fingers, the corners of her lips, and even dashes across the tip of her nose. And Peeta, Peeta smiles down at Prim with all the affection of a proud older brother. The sentiment in his face is one I recognize intimately. I know it well. I’ve looked at her exactly that way many times before. His tired, dark-circled eyes are somehow outshined by the delight that brims forth. For a moment he no longer looks like a boy who survived the Games. He’s once again just Peeta Mellark, my boy with the bread.

“When was this?” I ask aloud to the room, a twinge of envy hitting me.

I feel disappointment at missing such a perfect moment in time. I spent so many months hiding in the woods - hiding from the constant attention, hiding from the new expectations, and hiding from my mountains of guilt. Everything had happened so fast. My entire world had shifted and all the rules that I once thought I understood changed. I went from the 74th Games, to an entirely different, much more complicated one. A game with rules I did not understand. A game I was not at all prepared to play.

In the woods, everything slows down. In the woods, everything is simpler. There’s no worry of conspiracies or motives - a tree is a tree, a rock is a rock. The chaos of my new life drowned out by the nature that surrounded me and I could feel, for just a few hours, some sense of control.

I didn’t realize Prim and Peeta had gotten so close. I knew they spent time together, Prim would tell me when she planned to visit him, no doubt aware of the unspoken relief I would feel at the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in that big house. But this drawing, it captures how much they cherished that time. Two of the most important people in my life, together, having a perfect sugar-coated day. Before I lost them both.

I look at the boy in the drawing. Is there any piece of this boy preserved and untouched by the Capitol? Is he somewhere getting help? Is he healing? Is someone helping him feel whole again? I wish so much for that to be the case. That under the proper care of Dr. Aurelius, or whoever it might be, he is doing better than I am.

Looking at the drawing again, my instincts tug at me. Since his hijacking, I haven’t done enough to help him, to protect him. I wasn’t any good to him during the war. But now, now I should be there helping him find himself again, answering his questions, and playing _real not real_. The star-crossed lovers may have been a creation for the cameras, but since the cave, we have always been partners. How am I supposed to have his back, to make sure he’s safe, while trapped in 12? But then how can I think about helping someone else heal when I’m still so broken myself?

I take one last look at the picture, focusing on my little duck’s face. Prim would want me to do this. Prim would want me to make sure he knows he’s not alone.

I return the picture to its spot in the notebook, closing and clutching it to my heart before reluctantly returning it to the bedside table. Buttercup follows me out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. I drop some scraps for cat and make some toast and tea.

Simple little activities.

Armed with both, I return to the dreaded pile of mail. I know exactly where the letter from Peeta is, farthest to the left in a pile all its own. I stare at the letter, waiting for it to detonate. Flashes of the prior evening and my mother’s letter stop me from reaching out and opening the seal.

If I read whatever he has written, I might lose my courage to actually write him. Knowing me, I’ll find something upsetting and get defensive. I feel the momentum that has built since resolving to reach out and I don’t want to stop it. So instead of picking up the letter, I turn away from the piles and walk over to the desk to dig out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

I sit down at the table, paper and pen laid in front of me, unsure of what to do next.

It hits me. I’ve never really written a letter before. Quick notes maybe but never anything remotely close to this. _What a way to start learning_ , I think to myself.

“How do people start these things?” I wonder, looking at the blank page. I pick up the pen. Then put it down. Then pick it up again.

> Peeta,

I scrawl his name and then… nothing. _Well, one word down,_ I think to myself, _way to go Katniss_.

Maybe I should stick with blunt honesty, I consider. He’d at least be certain that I was the author.

> Peeta,
> 
> This is the first letter I’ve ever written. I wonder if you’ll be able to tell. I made the decision to write you before realizing I really didn’t know how. I don’t think I’m off to the best start. But I am writing and that’s something, right?
> 
> I haven’t read your letter. Well rather, after my mother’s letter, I haven’t read any of the letters piled up so don’t take it personally. I don’t think I’ll risk opening any of them.

_Now what_ , I ask myself. There is so much between us, some spoken, a great deal unspoken. Does he remember? Does he still think I’m a mutt? I sigh.

> Are you well? I really hope you are, but knowing my own state, I hope you at least are better. You and I, getting well might be too much to ask, but better, better might be doable. I wish I could help you get better.

I write the words before I can stop them. Should I just ball up the page now and restart? Well, it is the truth. _In for an inch…_

> Sometimes it feels like I can do that - you and me against the world. We can reach each other when others can’t. But I know the reality is that sometimes I do the opposite. Especially since the war, I think I do more harm than good. And hurting you, that’s something I never wanted. I hope wherever you are, you’re surrounded by nicer people than me, people who are better equipped to do what I wish I could.
> 
> I’m surprised at how easy this is. You know I’ve never been good with words, but it seems easier on paper. These days, I don’t think I say more than a few words. I’m not a ‘mental Avox’, or whatever it was that Aurelius diagnosed me. I’m just so tired of the noise. I want so much to feel peace, and the quiet seems as close as I can get for now. I’ve been forced to do too much talking over the last year. For a while, I think I just need to listen. At least until I trust my own voice again.

I wonder if I’m even writing this to a person anymore. I decide to just follow my instincts and let whatever needs to come out pour onto the page.

> 12 is a land of the dead. Ghosts haunt the district and ghosts haunt my dreams. But maybe they’d follow me wherever I was. For a long while I drifted like one of those ghosts, but about a week ago I woke up. Now I’m trying, but each day is hard. I don’t want to be a husk of a person; I refuse to become my mother. But who do I want to be instead? I don’t know. Do you?
> 
> I think of the list of words you gave us: Friend, Victor, Enemy, Fiancée, Target, Mutt, Hunter, Tribute, Ally – were there more? In this new world, which of those am I? You couldn’t figure me out then, now I can’t either. Something about that somehow seems fair in a way.
> 
> If it makes you feel any better, you always confused me too. From the first moment when you met Haymitch, you seemed resolute to know how to win the Games, but then you’d go and comment how you knew you wouldn’t. We started to build a partnership on the chariot and in the training center, but then you didn’t want to be coached together anymore. I didn’t understand, but I took it as an obvious warning. But then you went and declared your feelings in the interview. Your charm was so foreign to me. You even had Caesar looking at you like he wished you were his own son. And the idea that anyone would be remotely interested in me the way you described was so ludicrous; the thought that it was true never even crossed my mind. It was an impressive strategy for sponsors, like your waving at the train window, nothing more. Of course, then the next morning you’re joined up with the Careers telling them about how to find me. I thought your plan was finally revealed.
> 
> But no, then you, Peeta Mellark, go and tell me to run instead of attacking me after I dropped the nest, confusing me once again. You didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t until the cave when you told me about the braids and the birds that I started to at least believe that some of it was real for you. No matter how skilled you were at lying, no one could have remembered such a benign moment from so long ago or talk about it as if it meant so much. It rung of truth, and I decided, in that moment, it was only fair to trade truth for truth. That was real.

And it was. I resisted my instincts and let out my honest thoughts, admitting that it wasn’t being trapped in the Games, he didn’t have much competition anywhere. He still doesn’t. For someone who kept trying to throw his life away for me, he never seemed to get how special he was.

I need another sheet of paper. _Why,_ I ask myself, _you’re just going to bin this later._ I grab another blank sheet, but don’t sit back down. Instead I wander over to the window.

The rain is still coming down in sheets. That must be why Sae hasn’t been over to check on me again. I press my cheek against one of the panes of glass, feeling its coldness seep into my skin. I stand there for what feels like hours as my body stiffens.

Rain has played a part in nearly all of Peeta and my important memories together. It rained for three days when we were in the cave. Three rainy days that somehow changed everything between us. Then another rainy night, this time on the train when he climbed into my bed to hold me and chase away the nightmares. Again, radically changing our relationship. Becoming the first person in a long time that I chose to rely on. The earliest, that awful night three months after my father died. I’ll never forget how the icy rain relentlessly fell. It chilled me to the bone, settling into my heart, crushing all my hope. This day, more than any of the others, is where everything could’ve changed.

Impulsively, I charge back to the paper.

> Do you ever feel like you cheated death? I keep thinking about it. I should have died so many times. I have even tried to and failed. How do I keep not dying while so many others do? I’ve been cheating death since I was eleven and a kind boy with pretty blue eyes threw me some bread. I don’t think you’ll ever understand how close to the end we were. By the time you found me under your tree, I could barely stand. I remember thinking that it was okay, I’d had enough and I was done. I’d die right there in the rain. With me gone, my sister and mother would soon follow, but all the suffering would finally be over. If it weren’t for that bread, we all would have died years before any names were drawn from Reaping balls.
> 
> On the really bad days for you I would wonder if it would have been better for you if you had just listened to your mother and thrown the bread to the pigs. How much trouble might you have saved?
> 
> I wonder where you’ll start over now. This is a new Panem, and you, more than many, could be successful in any district you chose. As much as I would like you to come home, to be near, I wouldn’t blame you if you did not return. Haymitch, Greasy Sae, and I don’t make for the best of welcoming committees. It’s not easy being back here and I imagine your current opinions of me wouldn’t make it the most desirable place.

What if I never see him again? What if he looks at this letter and throws it into the fire, never to respond? I’d never risk writing a second time. This could be the last chance I have to say something to him. The echoes of our last conversation ring in my ears. Amidst the chaos of City Circle begging him to let me die and his simple automatic, “ _I can’t_.”

It isn’t enough.

I could probably count how many times I have apologized my entire life. It’s just not something I do. Prior to the Games, prior to Peeta, I’ve always felt confident standing behind my choices. I’ve done a lot since then that I regret. If there is one person whose forgiveness would ease my soul, it would be his.

> I’m sorry I doubted you when I shouldn’t have, sorry I made it harder on you, and sorry I gave up on you when you needed me to be strong. I was lost and so very angry. All my hope shriveled up and I exchanged it for revenge. I let that fire consume me. I have burns to prove it.

It’s a physical sign of what is going on inside me. I rub my neck, fingers tracing the jagged ridges of new skin and old. I’m a patchwork person. How much of me is me and how much is cobbled together pieces of what other people want me to be?

> You once told me that you wanted to be more than just a piece in their games. Do you remember that? I didn’t understand at the time, but after two years of being moved around like a chess piece- first just a pawn, then a bishop, to queen, to pawn again- I understand now. I know I’ve failed at it, but I always kept your voice in the back of my head and wish for the day when we won’t let them change us. To be free. I hope you’ve found that. You deserve that.

Is it worth it, I wonder? After all of this, to just be free, to not be threatened or manipulated, tricked or forced. To just be.

Yes, that’s enough.

I sign it, still unsure whether I’ll toss it in the fire come morning. I sign it knowing that with one word I’m admitting to more than I ever have allowed. I may not know what we are to each other, all those confusing titles trying to figure each other out, but I know one thing for certain. No matter what we are, to me, in the quiet of my own head, he’ll always be my Peeta, and I am, well…

> Yours,
> 
> Katniss


	6. CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VI

The first thing I am aware of as my eyes flutter open, is that the constant knot in my stomach seems a little bit looser. I open the window and take a deep breath in, taking in the freshly washed smell of the district. I couldn’t tell you what exactly, but something washed away during the last three days of rain. The muscles in my face tighten and I’m shocked at the realization that I just smiled, a small one, but still, it was there.

I dress and head down to the kitchen to begin making tea. I pull down a large mug, but mid-pour, stop and put the kettle to the side to pull down a second mug. I’ve watched Sae making tea for weeks now, I know how she likes it, and copy the ritual. I’m so grateful for her presence; that she is here. That she cares. And no amount of tea or words of thanks could ever properly express it, but know I need to do better at trying. I finish stirring when I hear the lock turn over and the front door open, quickly followed by the quick patter of little feet and the heavy hobble of much older ones.

“Good morning child. It looks like you might have gotten a spot of sleep last night,” Sae observes as she clambers into the kitchen and puts down her armful. I turn up the right corner of my lips and nod as I hand her the mug.

Her hands wrap around the warm cup and she takes a long pause to look at the tea then studies me with her knowing eyes. I resist the urge to turn away until she takes a sip, humming, “I always knew you were my favorite.”

I huff a laugh as I slide up to perch myself up on the countertop, sipping my own tea while I watch her unpack the supplies for breakfast. “Ana’s been in a right mood since day two of that storm. I am too old to keep up with that much pent up energy,” she chats as she navigates my kitchen better than I do. I hear the patters of Anabel in the other room, chasing some imaginary friend around the couch… or perhaps the cat is getting a nice workout.

Sae crosses to the kitchen island and I suck in air, holding my breath as she runs her fingers across the name penned on the letter. _Peeta Mellark._

_Maybe this was a terrible idea,_ I think. Yes, maybe it was only a really good exercise and it would be therapeutic to just burn it. Yes, actually mailing it, now that’s an insane idea. Am I even allowed to mail things? And chances are he’ll toss it out as soon as he recognizes my handwriting.

That loosened knot starts to tighten again.

I close my eyes and shake my head as if to ignore my body’s reaction, ball up my fists readying to snag the envelope and run, when I feel warm wrinkled hands placed on top of my own scarred ones. I open my eyelids, and somehow, I know she understands. Without a word, I feel more maternal understanding and her, I don’t know, maybe even pride, than I honestly know what to do with. With one last squeeze she grabs a pen and writes something under his name. Without commentary she hands me the envelope and returns to her tasks. An address now sits underneath my slanted writing.

She pulls out the cast iron skillet. “You know, the weekly mail shipment is due to be picked up today at eight. I think Ana would love to take a walk to the train depot with her favorite person in District 12.” She laughs at her own joke, knowing that the only options are me and Haymitch, and really, winning that competition can’t be the source of much personal pride. But my eyes are still wide at the suggestion of leaving my sanctuary and potentially interacting with strangers. “There are a few letters that you can drop off for me and there should be a crate of supplies, maybe a few letters to pick up, and bring back. We’re the only ones here, so it’ll be obvious what to grab.”

Before I can even consider saying no, Anabel is in front of me, holding out her tiny hand expectantly. Her eyes sparkle at the thought of a new adventure with her friend. I wonder to myself, how on earth did I become special to this little person? Me and my slug-like personality, I scare away grown men three time my size with just a glare. Yet this little sprout is not looking at me like I’m a mentally unstable burnt remnant of a person. She’s definitely Sae’s kin.

I try to resist, but who could say no to the look on Ana’s face? That glint of eagerness and adoration, with just a smidge of hope for potential mischief. Prim was a master of it, though Anabel looks like she’s ready to beat her record. I look up at Sae and see her smirking. She knows she’s won this round. Did they plan this? _No need to be so smug old lady_ , I try to say with my eye roll, as I slide off the countertop.

I put on my coat, button up Anabel’s, and Sae hands me my letter alongside four letters of her own. I take two slow breaths in and hold out my hand in determination. Anabel slaps her own into my palm with gusto as if to say, “Yes Katniss, we can do this!”

We walk towards the gates of Victors Village, Ana swinging our arms as we go. I choose to cut through the trees instead of sticking to the road. I know Anabel doesn’t get to go through this kind of foliage with its rougher terrain. It’s a beautiful thing to watch someone appreciating the same magic of the woods that I have known my entire life.

She touches the textured barks and every so often starts to veer off-course when she’s pulled her eyes towards the towering branches instead of the path ahead. The walk goes faster than expected, and soon we’re approaching the makeshift platform used as a depot. The train station is nothing but a pile of rubble these days. At least this temporary one gives us plenty of distance from the town.

I’m not sure how long we’ll need to wait or how timely the supply trains are running these days. Honestly, I have no clue of how anything in the new nation is running. How strange to think that a couple of months ago I was being sent down to Command to be at the center of the war efforts. Perhaps that is part of the penalty for my crimes, to be kept out of the loop, isolated in the catacombs of 12. Joke is on them though. This isolation is a gift while it lasts.

Anabel is chasing imaginary fairies through the damp grass, slipping every dozen steps or so. Finally she crashes into my shins, holding on tight to not lose her footing. I pick her up from under her arms and we climb onto the wooden platform. As we wait, we lay on our backs watching the clouds roll by, every so often pointing to an especially interesting shaped one, until the sound of the train in the distance shakes us from our reverie.

From the outside, the supply train doesn’t look much different than the passenger trains. As the intimidating piece of machinery slows to a stop, all I can think about is where these trains have always taken me: away from my home and into danger. I know this train carries supplies, but I can’t stop the bristling feeling of warning: _threat, threat, threat._

“Hold on tight to my hand, Ana,” I whisper. “Don’t let go.”

A young man in uniform, not that much older than I, hops off the back of the car with a small crate _._ He gives a sweet little wave to Anabel before glancing up at me and promptly fumbling the box in shock. Of all the places to find a lost Mockingjay, I assume he never would have expected this. Or maybe he’s afraid I might mistake him for a president. You never know these days.

He pulls himself together and places the crate on the ground. I see him gulp before holding out a palm-sized piece of technology.

“Will you be signing today, Miss Everdeen?” I nod and take the small pen to sign for the delivery as he asks, “Anything for pick-up?”

I pass the tablet back and then relinquish the bundle of letters, my hands shaking as my last opportunity to retrieve the letter to Peeta passes. He smiles as he takes the items, excited to be the official courier of ‘the girl on fire’.

“We’ll take good care of them, Miss Everdeen.” I nod again.

_Oh,_ I think to myself, _I should say something_. _Normal not-mentally-unstable people usually say something_.

“Thank you…” I respond, trailing, unsure of what title to call him.

“Micah, ma’am, and please, thank you, for, for, well, just… thank you,” his eyes shining with feeling. I gently squeeze his forearm in understanding, not knowing what else to say.

Micah turns and hustles back, jumping onto train as the engine starts to lurch forward, pulling away from the depot. Before he closes the door, he hangs out by one arm, and whistles back to us. He whistles the four-tone mockingjay song, Rue’s song, three-fingered salute held high, before disappearing into the train.

My throat tightens and I look for something to distract me from the ache in my chest or the memories that are on the cusp of flashing back. I pick up the crate and lean in to Ana conspiratorially, “ready for breakfast?”

She squeals and grabs hold of my sweater and starts excitedly dragging me homeward. My mind is still lost, distracted by Micah and his unexpected behavior towards me. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t curse me or blame me for his district’s suffering. He was kind and gracious, but he was… his eyes seemed to hold an understanding, a recognition of a shared brokenness. I wonder whom he lost.

As we get to the road, my companion takes off. Before I can stop her, she runs and leaps into the largest puddle she can find. Mud splatters everywhere, coating her, me, the crate. I know I should scold her, but here in this land of the dead, Ana has found absolute joy in a simple soggy puddle. It is so like my own little duck that I can’t help but want to live in this moment a little longer and feel her close to me again. I put the crate down, take a deep breath, and then leap in to the puddle next to her.

We make disasters of each other until the chill starts to hit. I pick up Anabel, putting her on my left hip, and with a serious face, she very carefully presses a small muddy handprint onto my cheek. I bark out a laugh at her audacity, and pick up the crate to anchor on my right hip.

After Sae’s half-hearted attempt to show disapproval at our disarray, undermined by her smiling eyes, Ana stays glued to my side as we eat breakfast.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, Ana, I think you even got mud in your ears,” Sae tuts as she dries her hands at the sink.

As she passes me and picks up the crate, Sae softly tells me, “You did real good today, girlie. I’m sure your pa is smilin’ down.”


	7. CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VII

I’m still sitting at the table, lost in thought, when I realize it’s been minutes since they’ve left and I shake myself from stupor. I refill my tea, and look down at the mess I’ve made of myself. It’s strangely satisfying to be covered mud, to see the dirt under my nails. Beauty base zero is nowhere in sight. It’s never been more obvious that I am not a creature of the Capitol. How I want to revel in that.

I wander out to the back porch and situate myself in the hanging swing that overlooks the sloping lawn of Capitol-precise grass. It’s a curated shade of green, mutated to stay vibrant through the winter and pest-free. My fingers itch to tear into that uniform weed-free sod, ripping it from the earth. That kind of false-perfection has no business being born from the rich soil of District 12. Like one of Snow’s roses that says, _‘I can find you, I can reach you, I’m watching you now.’_ It mocks me

I sip my tea, stare off into the empty yard, and begin turning over an idea. It’s a brilliant and mad plan.

I can feel it my bones, the ache to bring life to this land. How I’d love, for once, to be a bringer of life, not the harbinger of death that I’ve become. I want to erase that man’s obvious manipulations and let nature reclaim what is rightfully hers. I want to be sweat-covered and elbow-deep in earth. I want to claw at this impersonal ‘perfection’ and bring in some good old-fashioned disorder.

The next morning, armed with an arsenal of found garden tools and my rattiest clothing, I take to the yard.

I first mark out a series of rows with stakes and twine. It’s probably too big, in fact, it definitely is. If I was thinking less emotionally, I’d choose something more manageable for a beginner, but this urge to reclaim the land is too strong. I want it all gone.

I take the steel edger and begin following the line. I use all of my body weight to force the tool into the ground, feeling myself falling into the hypnotic rhythm. With each slice into the emerald grass, I think about the last two years of wrongness that the Capitol has thrust upon me. Sweat mixes with tears at some point but my eyes remain clear enough to follow the lines of string. I miss lunch, working through it unaware, and am able to edge the entire yard’s plot by the end of the day. I chew dinner distractedly and go to bed, muscles aching from the strain but mind glad for the exhaustion, rewarding me with less traumatic nightmares than usual.

The next morning I’m back at it, now cutting under and shoveling out the entirety of the grass, roots and all. I flip the sod over to create a bed, soil side up smothering what remains of the perfectly designed green. By midday on the second day of shoveling, the yard is more brown than green and I can tell that if I keep working, I should have all rows complete by sundown. I’ll still have to till and fertilize the soil, but at least I will have the visual satisfaction of a successful mission.

Today, I am sweating heavily and find myself covered in dirt from head to toe. I once again am lost in the rhythm of the work. With each deep dig, my mind is pulled to thoughts of all the graves that have been dug because of Snow and his corruption. Orphans digging holes for parents killed by Peacekeepers and inhumane conditions. _Dig_. Mothers burying their tiny stillborns because they couldn’t eat enough to sustain the child. _Dig_. The nearly 2,000 parents left with nothing but spade and a box of whatever remains were left of their children turned Tributes. _Dig_. Are there more graves than survivors?

And how many are like me? Not even able to have the comfort of a grave. Can’t even find some peace in the sound of a shovel driving into the ground and forcing open the earth below. My father’s remains forever sealed in that awful mine and my sister… well, nothing was left for a grave either. Her existence disappeared into thin air before my very eyes, never to be properly laid to rest.

> “Your great Grandpa Fletch always told me the same story when he’d take me to this graveyard.”
> 
> After this morning’s trip into the forest, Pa wanted to visit the small cemetery on the farthest outskirts of the Seam. It’s a tradition of his to visit a few times a year. He usually never talks here; we usually walk silently by the homemade grave markers, a deep sadness in his eyes.
> 
> “What was the story?” I ask, eager to avoid lapsing back into the typical quiet. This place always makes me shivers.
> 
> “It is not a happy one, a tragedy really, but Grandpa Fletch always told it. Come here, my little songbird. I think you’re old enough now for this one.” He gestures to the makeshift bench. I settle in next to him, but his strong hands reach around to capture my waist and pull me up onto his lap.
> 
> “There once was a girl, a devoted sister whose brother was killed and branded a traitor by the king.” I immediately frown. This is already a terrible story.
> 
> “The king wanted to make an example out of the brother and show the consequences of defying his laws, so he refused to bury him. The body was to be left out to be scavenged by animals.”
> 
> Pa explains, “I know that sounds awful but it actually was even worse than it sounds. Back then, they believed that if a body wasn’t buried the person would suffer forever between the worlds of the living and the dead – a kind of eternal torture. To refuse a burial was a great crime against nature.” The thought makes me shrink into his broad chest.
> 
> “So the sister, heartbroken at the thought of her brother being treated so cruelly, chose to defy the king. She properly laid her brother to rest, sneaking out in the middle of the night to bury him. When the king discovered her disobedience, he sent his guards to arrest her. But the sister, though just a young girl, was not afraid. She knew what she did was right. She told the king, ‘ _For all your crown and your trappings, and your guards—all that you can do is to have me killed_.’ The girl, she wasn’t afraid of dying.
> 
> “She declared to the king, _‘If I have to die for this crime, I am content, for I shall rest beside my brother; His love will answer mine.’_ The king was furious. His advisors warned him that he may be blinded by pride and not thinking rationally, however he refused to listen and sentenced the sister to death for her defiance.”
> 
> He stares down at me with intensity. “My songbird, remember, ‘ _All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.’”*_
> 
> “What happened in the end, Pa?” I ask, shaken by this grim tale.
> 
> “Though the sister dies, her courage sets off a chain of events that ultimately takes away everything that mattered to king and he was left with nothing but despair.”
> 
> We sit in silence for a few minutes, with only the sound the breeze rustling the branches above our heads.
> 
> “Why do you think great grandpa liked telling that story so much?”
> 
> Pa pauses, his eyes are distant, deep in thought. He lowers his chin so he can whisper very softly into my ear, “I think Grandpa Fletch felt a connection to the sister. I think he saw the similarities between the king and our own government, and felt that if he were put in the same position as the girl, he would do the same. Some beliefs are so important they are worth dying for. No just law should prevent you from protecting your family and _a city that belongs to just one man is no true city_ at all _.”*_

The king and Snow, the resemblance is uncanny: two proud, power-hungry rulers struggling to intimidate two teenage girls who had the nerve to question their authority. Defiant females who saw little value to their own life but unwavering devotion to those dearest to them. I thrust the shovel into the grass with all the remnant rage inside me. I wonder if my father meant for this story to settle so deeply into my unconscious.

I’m so lost in my own head I don’t realize I have gathered an audience. As I finish and stab the spade into the dirt with finality, conquering the ground as if it’s my enemy, I hear a chuckle and look up.

Sae and Haymitch are sitting on the porch, witnessing my plant-based anger management session. Who knew it would draw such attendance. _Look at that_ , I think sardonically at the sight of the three of us, _we could hold a town hall and have full attendance_.

I should be embarrassed, but honestly, this is Sae and Haymitch. They can’t be too surprised anymore by anything I do. Sae watching me carefully, hands me a damp towel to wipe my face and hands.

“So sweetheart,” Haymitch drawls, “care to tell us anything? A man spends a couple of days enjoying a few bottles and comes out to a whole new world next door.” His voice very subtly softens, “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

“It needed to be gone. It had no right to be here,” I answer simply.

He furrows his brow, trying to follow my statement. “The yard didn’t belong?“ 

“Capitol grass, Snow’s grass,” I sneer his name as I stare out over the sea of overturned dirt. I wipe sweat from forehead and cheeks with my wrist to avoid my muddied hands. “I couldn’t stand looking out my window at that garish green taunting me.” Whispering more to myself, “ _He_ doesn’t belong here. This is District 12. This is _my_ home.”

My companions are silent after that, following my gaze to the former yard. After a few minutes Haymitch tosses back a drink from his flask smirking, “You know, sweetheart, I always hated that grass. Too damn bright – reminded me of Caesar’s hair.” Sae snorts, glad for the break from darker thoughts. I turn to him with a serious face, “Or one of Effie’s frightening wigs.” Haymitch howls, clearly surprised that I tried to crack a joke.

We head inside where Sae has some plates ready. After washing my hands, I see the place for Haymitch set and am secretly pleased he’ll be taking a break from his liquid diet and solitary confinement to eat with us.

“A garden will be real nice,” Sae says as she hands us some spoons. “With spring coming there should be some nice sprouts around the district to gather and I can look into using some of your Victor funds to order nicer seeds if you’d like. If we get in the order by the next train it shouldn’t take much more than a week to arrive” I nod, thankful for the thought. I hadn’t even gotten to thinking about any part of my plan beyond digging massive pits of soil, but I have a strong inkling that Sae might have already figured _that_ truth out.

Haymitch clears his throat, “Well talking of spring, that’s actually why I came over this afternoon.” I tilt my head and wait patiently, recognizing his _mentor voice_ and knowing that probably means bad news for me.

He sighs, “With the snow melted, the district is now able to begin rebuilding. They were waiting till the ground thawed.” He explains, “See the first thing they have to deal with is collecting the bodies and there was no chance in doing that while so many were frozen under the winter snow.” I chill at that mental picture.

“They’ll be sending a planning committee of sorts soon to evaluate the wreckage and set up a schedule for cleanup and building. Five or ten gents, some from 12 and others from outside districts,” he finishes, going back to cutting his meat.

I look at him unblinkingly, waiting for the piece of information _he_ knows _I_ know he specifically didn’t disclose: his ambiguous ‘soon’. He puts his fork and knife down and rubs his whiskered face with his hands. “Two days,” he answers.

My eyes widen. Two days. There will be people here in two days time. I’m not sure if I’d prefer to know if Haymitch found this out weeks ago and hid it or if we were just notified. Either way it doesn’t matter, in forty-eight hours strangers will be invading 12.

Haymitch turns to Sae. “I’ve been asked to let you know that you will have some company joining you at your house. They’ve assured me they’ll be respectful around you and the little one but would like to offer to pay you generously to run the place like a boarding house while they are here. I guess they don’t trust the men’s ability to feed themselves without burning the house down.”

Sae nods, glad for the income, “Got to make the meals anyway, no hardship making more servings long as they supply it.”

They begin talking specifics. I catch flickers of the conversation but keep getting lost in my own thoughts. _This is just the start,_ I tell myself. I’m grateful that they’re staying in Sae’s house as that means the houses adjacent to ours will stay vacant, but I know that won’t last forever. This is the only location with residential structures still standing. They will be filled, and it sounds like it’ll be sooner rather than later.

Buttercup rubs his head against my ankles and I pick him up so he can settle on my lap. I feed him the last bits of meat left on my plate and stroke his fur, still deep in my own thoughts. I catch Haymitch telling Sae, “- should recognize Thom and one of the other young men from the mine as well as the Waylands from town. Thom seems to be in with the leaders of the group so that’ll make things easier.”

Thom’s a good man. He’ll do the district proud. Though they were friends, he was never as prejudiced as Gale was regarding the Town and Seam divide. The Waylands mentioned must be the father and son that ran the blacksmiths. They were townies, but served Seam customers at discounted rates when business was slow. The shop was right on the cusp of the Seam. That probably saved their lives once the bombs started to fall.

“You know I’m going to be hard pressed to keep enough fresh meat to feed all those men,” Sae says. She lowers her voice, “I know you and your bow are taking a bit of a break, but is there any chance you can help and old lady out by setting up those snare lines I’m sure you’ve got hidden out in that forest of yours?”

I stop stroking Buttercup, surprised that the snares haven’t even crossed my mind. Snares. I can do that. Sae is going to be busy providing for all of us, it’s the least I can do. _I should do this_ , I tell myself. I don’t have a discomfort with the basic snares the way I do with my bow right now. _I can do this_. It will be good for me to do this. This is who I am; the woods have always called out to me and provided what was needed to keep people fed.

“I’ll go out tomorrow,” I answer.

That night is not a kind one. Nightmares run a jumbled loop of graves and roses, rubble and district members unable to outrun falling bombs, calling out to me the same way I imagine my sweet Prim did. Dreams covered in so much ash I feel as if it still coats the inside of my mouth.

This is the kind of night that makes me feel shattered the next day. It’s the kind where I only want to shelter myself away. But I know where those thoughts will lead me. I’m always just a couple bad days away from completely disconnecting, and no matter what, I refuse to go down that road.

Snares, yes, that’s what I’ll do. It’s what I am _needed_ to do. With great effort, I get up, dress, and am out the door before dawn breaks. Remembering where the previous lines were isn’t easy but there seems to be some muscle-memory that leads me. Some of the lines have fallen apart and can be salvaged while others are too far-gone. I fix the ones I can as I go and commit their location to memory. A few are still working but need to be reset, whatever triggered them long gone, escaped or scavenged.

The sun is high by the time I start setting up new snares. My fingers are still nimble, remembering the process and movements ingrained from not only years of trapping but also the weeks of intense training that Peeta enforced prior to the Quell. I set four more in this area before moving on to select the next.

I follow the sun’s usual path, heading west with no destination in mind. After walking for fifteen minutes or so, my stride slows and I feel a sense that I’ve been here before. I turn around, the feeling of déjà vu overwhelming. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, smiling as I recognize the place.

> “Little moon, see that birch over there?” My father whispers into my ear. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet so I have to squint my eyes. “The shiny black one, pa?”
> 
> “Mhmm, now if you look a little closer, you’ll spy a lump that looks like coal from the mines. But if we can grab it, I promise you, your mother is going to make me the happiest man in District 12 tonight.”
> 
> I look up at him, raising my eyebrows skeptically. “Come on songbird, let’s see if you can reach it if you’re perched up on my shoulders.”
> 
> He lifts me from the ground, straight up and over his head, ducking as I position my little feet on each of his shoulders. I feel each of his hands tighten around my hips to hold me steady as we sway and try to keep balanced.
> 
> “Alright now, give it a good tug.”
> 
> I reach out, hesitant to touch the charred-looking growth, and once I anchor each hand, try to pry the lump off of the bark but fail.
> 
> “Just a little more muscle and it should pull off. Move the heel of your right hand to just an inch lower… yes, right there. On the count of three: one, two...” On three, with an exhaled grunt, the strange chunk disconnects revealing a copper-colored inside.
> 
> “What is it?” I ask, prodding at the orange interior.
> 
> With a cat-like grin, “This, little moon, is chaga. It’s a fancy mushroom. Not that good for eating but your mother is going to be mighty happy to have this for her teas. Right powerful stuff for healing and a rare find.”
> 
> I climb down, and he takes the chaga, wraps it in some cloth, and puts it in his game bag. With a soft look, my father reaches out and strokes the bark of the tree, his fingertips feeling the score marks marring the bark.
> 
> “You know I’ve always felt a kinship to these trees. They remind me of us Seam-folk.”
> 
> His eyes get a far-away look, “My pa always told me birch trees were a symbol of determination and fortitude ‘cause they can occupy damaged places even when something bad has happened. They’re survivors.”
> 
> He looks down at me and I copy his position, pressing my own palm against the bark of the tree. “You know, birch trees are the first to grow right after a fire tears through a forest. They find a way to overcome tragedy and difficulties. They take root through the ashes and bring renewal.”

Opening my eyes at the familiar grove of trees, it feels like my father has led me here, to the very spot; as if he knew that today I would be plagued with thoughts of the district and its utter destruction. I reach out my palm, just as I did ten or so years prior, feeling the torn flesh of the bark rough against my own torn skin.

_Aren’t we a pair_ , I think as I move my left palm to match its mate? The girl on fire, we both somehow came out of this alive. Can I take root in my own ashes?

And what of District 12? We could desperately use a new beginning. A land of rubble and corpses, it feels as if it might be too broken, damaged beyond repair. Can life find a way through this land of the dead?

As my eyes begin to well, I look skyward and blink the tears back. I stay as still as the crisp breeze blowing past, tickling the fraying wisps of hair at the nape of my neck. My palms remain fastened to the glossy black birch bark as the clouds slowly drift across the sky. I see a long scraggly branch a couple feet above my head and reach up to pull it down. With a snap, the branch releases and I stumble back with its force.

I carry the branch over to a nearby log, its tip dragging along in my wake, where I settle myself down and wrap my jacket up tighter around my body. I bring the raw end of the branch to my nose and take a deep breath in, inhaling its sweet evergreen aroma. The minty flavor feels soothing, like a balm to my troubled thoughts. Silence. Just me and these trees.

The cold air rustles the branches and like the whisper of my father’s voice, I know why I was brought here today.

I pull out my knife and get to work. The teeth of the blade make quick work sawing through the thin branch with ease. After twenty minutes, I’m left with a fragrant pile of what might be mistaken as kindling. I pull over my game bag and dig to the bottom where a length of twine is rolled.

One by one, I gather the branches and arrange them into a circle, moving and rearranging as I go to try and make the pieces fit together correctly. I cut the twine into smaller lengths and begin wrapping the arranged bundles until a wreath starts to take shape. I’m no artist, the idea almost makes me laugh out loud to myself, but I can’t help but be pleased that the branches are now held together in a sturdy and obvious wreath-shape.

District 12 is very familiar with wreaths, especially the Seam. When someone dies, you’d see a willow wreath placed on their door symbolizing the mourning of that family. I think back to the hazy period of time after the mining accident that killed both Gale’s and my father, and I remember hating the site of all those willow wreaths. You couldn’t go three houses in the Seam without seeing another bulletin of death. I came home to one on my own door that night. The final stop before being greeted by a hungry 7-year-old and a mother who was nearly as dead as her husband. The wreaths were of comfort to most families though, letting neighbors know that the home was grieving and any kindness would likely be appreciated.

I gently place the birch wreath in my bag and begin the walk home.

That night before bed, I quietly walk to Sae’s house near the gates of the Village. With some string, I tie the wreath to the knocker and back away.

I bring my hands to my nose and inhale, breathing in the evergreen smell from the branches. I keep my minty hands near my face as I return to my home to what I hope is an easier night’s sleep.

* * *

_*Can you guess what Greek tragedy this tale and its quotes are from?_


	8. CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER VIII

I’m out in the woods before the sun rises. Sae believes the committee will be arriving on the early morning train and I’d like to be as far away as possible. I need a few more hours of delaying the inevitable, that’s all.

When I reach a comfortable log to settle on, I pull out a thermos and some scraps of leftovers found in the refrigerator. My appetite has not yet returned, but the routine of eating and the understanding of the physical consequences of not eating are enough to go through the motions. I refuse to put myself in a position where someone would need to call a search party to rescue me.

It should be a nice day; you can smell it in the air. Perhaps that is a good omen.

I wonder what this ‘committee’ will find upon their arrival. They can’t possibly be prepared for it. Even after I saw the wreckage the first time, when we returned with the film crew, it was just as unimaginable. Since returning, I have refused to stray near the points of impact, where I know the familiar buildings of my district are nothing but rubble. And the bodies… my people, nothing but lost bones in the ash.

I check the snares and am pleased to have two rabbits to present to Sae tonight. For a moment, I forget about all that the world has become and feel like the girl I once was. Hunting in the woods and bringing my haul to trade with Sae. It’s a familiar routine from another Katniss’ life.

I climb an old oak tree and pass the remaining hours of the morning simply sitting in silence. I try not to think too much, knowing any of my thoughts are likely to drag me under and I can’t afford falling apart today. Not when there are strangers nearby to witness it.

When I was young, my father showed me how powerful stillness could be. It was one of his first lessons. We would find a spot and settle in for hours. It took awhile to learn how to curb the fidgeting that simmers under the skin of a child, but once mastered, I started to see the power of melting into your environment, nature embracing you as its own.

Pa said that the trees could teach us stillness. The trees were old and wise because they had mastered the skill of stillness. They rooted themselves into their soil, then looked and listened. They stay at peace in stillness and eventually the universe will whisper them secrets upon the wind.

I never had much of an interest in learning mystical secrets, but I did find that in practicing stillness I could create a refuge where the chaos would slip away. I could feel both more like myself, the person I really am deep down, as well as more connected to something bigger than myself. Something that is timeless and interconnected. Something insignificant and yet mighty.

Stillness was also a hunter’s best tool. Once with my father, when I was six years or so, we sat under a pine, listening to the springtime forest in silence. After an hour, the animals seemed to accept our presence. We could see bugs crawling from their hiding spots and birds popping up from their nests.

One precocious kit must have snuck away from his fox den and approached me full of curiosity. I’ll never forget the stupid grin my father wore as he watched the two of us studying each other. After investigating with sniffs and licks, the cub decided I must be a giant new sister to play with. The kit and I frolicked about, both naive to the dangers we truly were to each other. No one had taught either of us we were enemies.

Finding that stillness is not easy. Even while sitting among the bare branches of the oak, trying to prepare for the monumental change coming feels impossible. I close my eyes and try to imagine that the turmoil I’m feeling is like the rough ocean waters that churn during a storm.

Pa once told me that sometimes you have to ride the violent waves.

> _“Panic is what can drown you songbird. Sure, tread all you can and try to keep those braids above water, but If the tide is unkind and pulling you under, sometimes it’s better to take a deep breath and ride the rip out.”_

During the war, all I did was fight the cyclone that surrounded me. I was panicked and gasping for air, as my muscles grew more and more weary from fighting something much too powerful.

As I’ve gotten older, so many things he taught ended up meaning more than one thing. Secret meanings hidden beneath the surface of his lessons. District 12 had no oceans, so we had no waves to worry about. Did he know that I’d be treading in personal storms instead of any mere body of water?

I breathe and seek out the quietness I know is buried deep inside – my inner tree or whatever. I watch the world around me pass by. Sunlight shifts through the trees and my ears catch the small sounds of the rustles and creaks that hint at the life that stirs around me. It is so unyielding, unphased.

As wander home hours later, I hear low voices murmuring in the distance. Careful of my footsteps, I sneak nearer to the conversation. Two pairs of men are gathered only twenty feet or so from my hiding place.

The crew members clearly don’t expect to have stray ears listening in from the shadows of the wood. After working so hard to avoid the crew all day, I don’t know why I so badly want to hear what the men are talking about.

“You know, when I was in 8, I saw the Mockingjay’s footage showing the damage. I thought I was prepared,” says one of the men, his voice trailing off as he closes his eyes for a brief break from the sheer amount of death.

“There’s no way for destruction of this scale to be accurately captured on camera,” a larger man advises with a tight jaw and a serious look in his eyes.

“How did she bear walking through this just a month or two after it happened? I can hardly keep it together now,” mumbles the tall, Seam-looking man.

I recognize the familiar face of Thom as he replies out of the corner of his mouth, “Don’t know how much choice she had in the matter, Colton.”

The other miner, Colton, it seems, raises his eyebrow in question. Thom explains, “Don’t know how much you noticed while you were in 13, but Katniss didn’t look like she had a lot of freedom. They tried to keep close reigns on her, even Gale with his fancy little bracelet became more guard than friend.”

His bitter tone when mentioning Gale surprises me. I always thought they were friends of a sort, but I imagine Gale’s behavior while rising up through 13’s ranks could be seen as a betrayal to his own. Goodbye 12, hello 13.

“But you know our Katniss, never one to bend to someone else’s will.” He chuckles, “Can’t tell you how many times I’d watch their panicked search for her newest hiding spot or overhear someone complaining about her lack of respect for 13’s authority.” Colton thumps Thom on the back and wipes at pretend tears, “Making us Seam-folk proud.”

I never realized others from my district were watching me so closely. District 13’s citizens seemed to not care much about me, not having watched that Games, and I suppose I assumed most from 12 would be bitter and hope to avoid me or simply be tired of hearing about me since my _assent to fame_. I’m glad I could provide entertainment to some of our folk with my antics. Life in 13 had to be dull for them, and I certainly was unpredictable enough to offer some excitement amongst all the shades of grey and tattoo schedules.

The large stoic man shouts over to the miners, “Colt, how long did you say it took for the first bomb to hit after Everdeen blew out the forcefield?”

Colton looks to Thom, “Maybe fifteen minutes tops? Hey Wayland, ‘bout fifteen right?”

One of the oldest men in the group, Mr. Wayland, the former district blacksmith, nods from across the field as he walks closer to the conversation, “Yes, that’s all it could have been. That arrow hit, the screens went dark, and twenty or thirty seconds later all the power in the entire district was cut.”

Thom nods, adding, “We stayed quiet, expecting the Peacekeepers to start moving in. Knew there’d be a riot or a whipping or something coming. Within minutes Gale charged into the room and told us that all the Peacekeeper trucks were pulling out and pulling out quickly. Knew that meant nothing good for us and we split up shouting to grab your families and run. I’m one of the quickest, so I agreed to try and reach the farthest in. Only made it through the Seam, to Wayland’s, and to maybe the first half dozen or so homes on the far edge of Town. Maybe ran for about ten minutes. Then the first bomb fell and all hell broke loose.”

I listen carefully. I’ve only heard what happened that night from Gale and his propo. I know that this was Snow’s doing, the blame lies squarely on his shoulders, but I will always carry an uncalculatable weight of guilt for the vengeance he took out on my district instead of on me. That burden balanced by an equally painful Peeta-weighted one. Snow couldn’t get to me, safely tucked away in a 13 hovercraft, but innocent Peeta and innocent 12, he could get to them. At least 7,000 bodies lie dead across this district. Lifeless neighbors scattered across the ground because of my supposed _spark_ and one twisted old man’s wounded ego.

“There’s no way Snow mobilized a strike with this amount of explosives in just a couple of minutes,” the large man shakes his head. By the way he speaks and holds himself, he’s military. Likely from Two, I’d wager.

“What are you saying, Max?” asks the younger Wayland, his voice growing cold.

The man called Max crosses his bulging arms, “The timing is all wrong - both to plan it and to mobilize it. Fifteen minutes is impossible. Accounting for the amount of red tape and necessary protocols - Kelvin, you know the systems and tech, any theories?”

He turns to a slight bespectacled man who has joined the group. As he taps in notes on some kind of tablet, his twitchiness reminds me of Wiress and Beetee. He looks up but his fingers still flutter as if in constant readiness to tinker.

“I would agree with that hypothesis Sergeant Major. Even if the former President could activate the proper launch systems within minutes of the forcefield’s explosion, the amount of time to load the hovercrafts with the amount of ammunition required to accomplish this would be at least twenty minutes, even at top speeds. Next, the takeoff procedures alone are six minutes on average. Even if the hovercrafts were pre-loaded, the average military hovercraft travels at a rate of 900 miles per hour, making the length of time to travel from any standard take-off site to an outlying district such as 12 well-beyond what happened here that evening.”

My entire body freezes, and then begins shaking with boiling fury at the comprehension of what has just been said.

Kelvin finishes, “Though I have no evidence from this specific mission, the relevant data variables are irrefutable. I believe the only hypothesis that meets the mathematical parameters is that a strike team was already armed and on standby within a nearby distance hours if not days prior to Miss Everdeen’s release of that arrow.”

I bite on my own lips. I’m unsure of whether I want to scream or cry. Instead I opt for stealthily slipping away from my hiding place, before running deep into the woods. I run with no destination, not even a general direction.

The activity is so reminiscent of my run from the first Cornucopia. Whatever direction my body happened to be pointing, I keep pumping my legs, leaping over rocks and fallen tree limbs. I run because if I stop I think the rage might consume me whole. And unlike during the war, I can’t direct it at killing Snow. He’s already dead, the selfish bastard. Like an engine, I need to burn until the blaze decreases to a manageable smolder. I wonder how far I’ll get before my legs give out. I glance to the placement of the sun to reorient myself so I can at least point myself in the right direction for home.

Eventually the woods start to look familiar again and my legs and lungs are grateful for it. I breathe in shallow pants as I clutch my knees and swallow back the urge to vomit.

An inhuman growl vibrates in the back of my throat and builds until I am screaming to the skies. If they thought their Mockingjay was crazy before, they should see her now, alone in the wilderness, red-faced and yelling. Head tilted completely back, arms spread wide, scaring away every bit of game in the district.

I will never regret aiming that arrow at Coin, but in this moment, I’d give anything to have had a second one.

Before Coin called together the Victors for her vote, I may have had doubts on what to believe, but by the time she was done, I knew what kind of monster we were dealing with. She was calculative, tyrannical, and showed no feeling for the loss of innocent life she was proposing. She was a newer, younger Snow. She was _\- what was it Snow said?_ Wasteful.

The others may have missed her careful choice in words but I, and I’d wager Haymitch too, did not. We both excel in reading between the lines. There were only two options in play: complete annihilation of those holding Capitol citizenship or a final (supposedly) Hunger Games with the Capitol children. No abstentions. To Coin, to vote no for one, was to vote yes for the other. Both horrendous and frankly completely unnecessary. Worse still, she didn’t have the nerve to place the consequences of those two awful decisions on her own shoulders but squarely on those of the Victors. Wasteful and a coward.

It became clear. A woman who not only thinks-up but also has the power to emotionlessly execute those sorts of atrocities is no doubt a woman who would drop a time-delayed double bomb built to play on compassion and targeting those providing aid. A woman who would send a still traumatized prisoner of war into active combat in order to remove a potential future political threat. A woman who would throw a barely-trained 14-year-old girl on the front lines of a war zone. I woman who would murder that innocent sister solely to break me.

There were two rabid dogs that needed putting down that day. Coin had to go. I would never have the opportunity for such a clean shot again and an opportunity to silence her before she began repeating the same horrors as her predecessor. Our ‘vote’ would drift away into nonexistence once she was gone and her death could serve as warning to any other politicians thinking they could do the same. If she remained in power the war would never end. Yes, my one ‘symbolic arrow’ could only land in one President’s chest, and I know I chose correctly.

That doesn’t mean that at this moment I don’t genuinely wish I slipped an axe to Johanna. Whether Snow choked to death or was crushed by the crowd, he deserved to suffer so much more than he did. Jo would have been sure to get some justice for herself, some justice for our families, for the tributes, the victors, and righteous justice for our districts - for my district.

I know I should feel some of the guilt I carried for my district’s demise melt away at Kelvin’s theory, but I don’t think it can be that easy. If I didn’t feel that guilt gnawing in my bones, I think it would be evidence of something truly broken inside me. It’s all so wrong. Snow’s sick planning is wrong, the wreckage is wrong, the sheer amount of death, overkill without shame, every part of it is so very wrong. “ _I’m not wasteful_. _I take life for very specific reasons,”_ that’s what Snow told me. What a load of shit.

I check the game I collected this morning to examine it for any damage from my run. Luckily, it is still good enough to eat, just tenderized a bit, and I decide to head back to the Village so I can prep it in time for Sae to turn it into dinner.

She is thrilled at the sight of the two rabbits and puts together an impressive meal. I eat my small portion quickly, glancing through the window every few minutes in case the men are nearing the house. My edginess is poorly concealed. I want to be long gone by the time they return for the night.

As I wash my plate, I can feel Sae’s gaze burning into my back. I turn around slowly, waiting to find out what her all-seeing eyes have recognized. This woman knows me so well. People have said Haymitch and I have a special understanding, but it’s nothing compared to Sae.

When she looks at me, she sees me - all of it: good, bad, ugly. There’s never judgment, she simply understands. She gets it. The only other person who _saw_ like that was Cinna. It is a gift. Though, at times like this, that perceptiveness is unnerving.

“Those boys should be back in the next half hour or so I reckon. They’re supposed to be having some fancy conference call with the new government in the study once they finish eating.”

Her speech slows, “You know the study, where the window opens to that big old tree. That room is awfully stuffy. I think I may open a window to air it out tonight. Make things much more pleasant for the boys while they’re talkin’ over their big plans.”

I blink several times then can’t stop myself as I press a kiss onto her wrinkled cheek.

I adore this woman. Anyone else would lecture me about my unhealthy stalking habits, but no, not Sae. She knows, she gets it.

This is _our_ district, this is _our_ _home_. A closed-door meeting of men and unattached government officials deciding _our_ fate is not something that should go unsupervised. She’s got decades of listening in on chatter at her counter in the Hob or slipping food to orphans in exchange for listening in on peacekeeper conversations. She knows the value of good Intel. The two of us are probably a very dangerous alliance. I know if I were to ever be thrown into the Games again, I’d want a Sae guarding my back.

“Here,” as she hands over a plate, “go take this over to that pickled mentor of yours.”

I give her a cheeky salute, take the plate, and head towards the door.

“And if you happen to do any stargazing tonight, I expect a full report over breakfast.”

I look over my shoulder and smile wickedly. Sae barks out a laugh and winks in return.

About an hour later, I’ve positioned myself on one of the well-covered branches of the tree Sae mentioned. I’ve donned a warm hooded jacked that should blend in well and remembered to bring a notepad and pencil. The night is cool but instead of shivering it keeps me alert.

Eventually I hear voices growing closer and the sound of chairs scraping as they are repositioned.

“… and you should be able to set up the video feed right here, Kelvin,” I hear a voice say.

“Yes, this will do nicely,” someone hums in response. “I’ll activate the beacon and we should be connecting momentarily.”

“You think we have enough notes to begin planning?” Another voice asks.

“We better,” Thom’s familiar tone replies, “From everything I’ve been told, they want this done fast and are willing to put a lot of support behind those efforts.”

Suddenly a voice comes from the video connection, a voice I haven’t heard since my hovercraft home.

Plutarch begins, and I can almost picture him climbing up onto a custom-built soapbox, “Welcome, welcome! If I may, I’d like to start us off. My fellow countrymen, District 12 is of important symbolic significance. The rebuilding of the district will be held up as a paragon of renaissance for all of Panem. The nation will watch as District 12, birthplace of our beloved Mockingjay, heals both its physical and emotional wounds, and we will then know we too can heal our own wounds as well.”

I roll my eyes at his speechmaking. Everything is always such a production with him; all he’s missing is the fog machine and special effects. Then again, if one person came out of this war a winner, it was Plutarch.

“Yes, thank you for that, Secretary Heavensbee,” says the droll voice of now-President ( _you’re welcome)_ Paylor. “D12 Renovo Unit, are you ready to report?”

Max responds with military precision, “Yes, Madam President. Let’s begin with the most sensitive. Thom, can you report on loss of life.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major Maximus,” Thom’s voice changes to one more official and mature. “Census reports prior to the 75th Games estimate a District 12 population of 7,935. District 13 headcount put the number of District 12 refugees at 812 upon arrival. It is unknown how many were lost in wartime although we’d expect at least one to two hundred.”

“The remains of the estimated 7,100 deceased are, frankly Madam President, everywhere. You can’t walk a few feet without crossing paths with someone’s loved one.” He pauses to let that horror sink in.

“First priority must be the excavation and burial of the dead. I recommend bringing in a labor force from an outside district, ones with strong stomachs but respect for the dead. These remains have been forgotten and exposed to the elements for far too long.”

The Sergeant, Max, steps in, “We’ve spec’d an open tract of grassland the locals refer to as The Meadow. It has the square footage to accommodate a mass burial site with the potential of a future memorial installation. I’m sorry to report that remains identification is nonviable at this point. Best advice is to quickly and respectfully put them to rest together as a community.”

I hear Thom’s voice speak up again, “Are we correct in understanding that leadership does not want to consider rebuilding the district on previously unused district land?”

“Yes,” I hear Plutarch’s voice answer quickly. “The optics of leaving a ruins behind and building elsewhere is not on brand. We want the new District 12 to rise from the ashes.”

I hear Colton, who is perched in the windowsill nearest me mutter, “We certainly got plenty of ash.”

Max clears his throat, “Not a single structure remains intact in town. From there, we believe fires spread through most of the homes in the Seam. A few small houses on the farthest ends of the district are still standing, but overall, with the exception of the unsettlingly untouched Victors Village, our recommendation is to raze it all and start fresh with a cohesive community vision.”

Paylor hums in agreement, “Yes, no need anymore for constructed class divides between the citizens. We’ll send a team of architects and city planners out once the burials are complete. What is the status of the other district systems?”

A new voice speaks up, “Good news is that the underground water and power systems are undamaged and ready to be rewired into the town design plan. The systems were designed to serve the entire district but the previous administration chose to limit its access. With a few checks and updates it should be functional within a matter of a few days’ work.” He finishes but then seems to remember, “Oh! And the twenty-foot high electric fence once surrounding the district population is partially destroyed and no current is connected. We’ll have to take a vote on whether the fence should be removed or if a modified fence should be installed in its place for community protection from wildlife and rogue mutations.”

“What’s the status of the mines?” I nearly fall off my branch when I hear the familiar deep voice over the video. That voice was once the only other person I trusted in the entire world. My partner. We swore to always have each other’s back and would protect each other’s families at all costs. Promises of the young and naïve.

“Ah _Captain_ Hawthorne, I wondered if you were there somewhere,” Colton drawls. Yeah, something definitely didn’t end well between them. Suppose I can’t judge much on that topic, myself.

“The mine is a goner,” Thom says bluntly. “The summer was dry allowing it to keep burning without stop. Even with winter snowstorms, it couldn’t snuff the blaze. There are sections buried deep inside still burning. I reckon it will continue to do so for some time. Won’t be any mining in 12.”

“The district will need a new trade,” Gale states.

“No really, Captain?” Colton mutters sarcastically. I can’t help but second his commentary. _Who is this government stooge?_

Kelvin chimes in covering Colton’s retort, “We’ll schedule a comprehensive resource study and put together a committee to analyze potential new exports and calculate their sustainability on both a local and national level. I’d put a start date on that of five to six weeks’ time.”

“Then we’ll table that conversation for later,” Paylor agrees. “I will share confidentially with the group, government documents have been unsealed showing that the mines were more a political tool than one of national resource. There are many safer and more efficient energy sources than coal. We can do better. If we do this right, 12 can be our first opportunity to reshape the economy and fix the national supply chain.”

She then asks, “How soon can we get laborers and the necessary equipment for remains collection and burial?”

“We could get equipment on a train to arrive in three days’ time,” says one voice.

“Quickest labor will be sourced from 8, 11, or 13. 11’s trying to keep up with food demands and 13 is neck deep in military restructuring and unification efforts. Vern, do you think the laborers in 8 could handle this kind of job?” asks Paylor.

The deep bass voice of the unknown man I saw earlier today, Vern apparently, answers, “Yes, Commander,” opting to use her District 8 wartime title out of camaraderie I imagine. “With the factories gone, there’s plenty in need of work. And you know our people are now familiar enough with handling bodies. They’ll treat them with the same respect they did their own.”

“Specifics then: how soon, how many, and where will we put them?” Paylor follows up, in a no-nonsense way.

Another unknown official answers, “We could have a train ready to transport laborers as soon as it’s needed. If your equipment is delivered in three days, the crews can arrive the following day.”

“Could we get around fifty workers signed on and here in four days?” asks the man from 2, Max. There seems to be general sounds of agreement at that possibility.

He continues, “If we’re expecting fifty, I’d recommend having them bunk up in some of the remaining houses in Victors Village. There are eight still unclaimed and each has five large bedrooms plus a study. These crews are used to close quarters, you could easily house twelve or more in each while still keeping a few houses untouched.”

I hear the elder Wayland’s voice add, “The nights are still cold and the work will be grueling. Having a warm, dry place to rest will help morale. Plus setting up shabby tents in the shadow of a bunch of empty Victor mansions seems ungrateful.”

Kelvin pipes in with his typical logistics, “To summarize: Equipment delivery on Monday. We’ll need to add a large food, bedding, and supply delivery with it. If the labor force leaves District 8 early Tuesday morning, it should arrive by the afternoon. They can settle in to five of the Village properties, take a tour of the district, and hold a crew meeting over dinner to field questions and allocate positions. A small crew will be dedicated to digging out the burial site while the majority will be on collections. A week of ten-hour days should be all it takes then Phase Two: Demolition and Cleanup can begin. If fast-tracked, I calculate that putting us into Phase Three: Rebuild beginning mid-April.”

Plutarch announces, “We’d like to see trains of District 12 citizens returning to settle in before the July celebrations.”

“Celebrations?” Thom asks warily.

“Of course, of course! What was once Reaping Day, I am proud to announce, will now be a new national holiday we’re calling Remembrance Day. Celebrating our freedom from the Games,” Plutarch preens.

“What Secretary Heavensbee is trying to say,” Paylor attempts to clarify, “Is that if it is possible it would be encouraging to see citizens returning to their home district or, for non-natives, able to make a fresh start in a revitalizing District 12. First priority is safety and security however, no matter the politics. Do what needs to be done, in whatever time it takes, so that it is done correctly.”

She takes a deep breath, “D12 Renovo Unit, please use the next few days to formalize your timeline and logistics. I expect your reports to be sent to me in the next 24 hours. We’ll need a supply list by noon tomorrow so it can make it onto the equipment shipment. Anything else before we sign off?”

“Status on the Mockingjay?” I hear Plutarch chirp eagerly, like a child hoping to get a lolly.

I get tense, worried to hear the topic of myself dragged into this group’s discussions. Why can’t they just leave me be? It’s bad enough with unknowns and government officials listening, but the idea of them discussing my sanity, or lack thereof, in front of Plutarch puts me on edge. The thought of Gale hearing it makes me nauseous. I haven’t dealt with my feelings about Gale, but somehow I don’t like the idea of him knowing what I am up to. I’m here and he’s… wherever the hell he is. It should stay that way.

None of the men in 12 respond, unsure of an answer. I can imagine the awkward glances. Finally Thom attempts to placate Plutarch, “Katniss seems to keep to her home and the woods. She knows how to move about this area undetected better than anyone. I don’t expect we’ll see much of her.” A smile tints his voice as he continues, “But if the fresh rabbit Sae made us for dinner tonight was any indication, I’d say she is… doing what she can…” his sentence lingers as he tries to find the words he’s looking for, “she’s doing what she can to be of some good under the… circumstances.”

The conference call is ended and the men break out into various discussions as they put the room back to its original layout. I can’t make out what they’re saying in the cacophony of voices, so I take a look at the notes I made over the last ninety minutes. I add some details I missed and wait until I hear the men leave the study before climbing from my perch and sneaking back to my own home.

Before going to sleep I tell myself not think about Gale. It’s better to count him with the rest of my ghosts. It’s been a relief that there are numerous districts separating us. Just because I heard his voice today doesn’t make a difference. What the two of us were… are… no, were – _ugh_.

Why was being my partner, my most trusted friend not good enough? _Stupid Gale. Stupid Gale with his stupid feelings and his stupid jealously and stupid anger and stupid stupid bombs_.

I sigh, _so much for not thinking about him_. I close my eyes and let my body relax into the mattress.

The memory of my father’s words returns to me as a drift out of consciousness: “A _good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil.”_

The next morning, I come down the stairs and find Sae ready with two plates of breakfast and two mugs of tea. She doesn’t often actually eat with me, and I am surprised to find how pleased I feel for the mealtime companionship. Something about eating by yourself is especially lonesome, and having her eat with me, well it feels less like a caretaker and more like family.

I slap the notepad down between us and let her start reading the highlights of the previous evening’s events. Between bites of food, she mumbles at certain sections, others she grunts or even scoffs at before flipping the notepad shut.

“Quite the plan they’ve got. Seems rather impossible that they’ll be able to get all that work done so quickly. Can’t say I’m not relieved at the prospect of all those good folk finally being put to rest. Wish there was something more for the families still around, but the Meadow will make for a nice final resting place.”

My stomach turns at the idea of my meadow becoming a graveyard. The place Prim and I used to drape ourselves in daisy chains, where we found our first feast of dandelion weeds after weeks of starvation, where I would hide under sweet-smelling honeysuckle bushes until my father would find me. I don’t want that sacred place to be filled with death, but I know it is a selfish thought. Sae is right; it is a peaceful location for the dead to rest. _Safe and warm._ I think of the lullaby I sang to gentle Rue as she drifted away in my arms: _deep in the meadow, under the willow._

Sae’s voice shakes me from the heart-wrenching memories attempting to bubble to the surface. “Looks like we’ve only got a few days until there are people crawling all over the place. You’ll be okay with them moving in so near?”

We both know it’s a rhetorical question. The answer is obviously a firm no. “It’s okay if you won’t. It’ll be a lot of change real quick. I know I’ll struggle some days with it all.”

Hearing her admission soothes my own worries. My unease is normal. It’s not another sign of some weakness or mental instability. If Sae admits to worrying than I’m okay. “I won’t let myself slip away again,” I promise her softly.

She smiles warmly, seemingly pleased that I’m not hiding.

“We’ll make sure the houses nearest here stay empty for you. Don’t need a coop of roosters pecking into your business. And you and I will just need to keep our ears open so we know when to avoid what parts of the district. We’ll also need to make sure none of the young men go getting any bonehead ideas about what to turn our district into.”

She refills my mug, “Those boys don’t always know how to think with the same complexity of us womenfolk. In 13, I would watch all those boys playing soldier and keeping important things from you. Bunch of fools. Would have saved a lot of trouble if they had told you the truth. Heavens forbid you were allowed to make an informed decision. You and I have got to listen on behalf of all the District 12 mothers and sisters and wives. The men won’t mind if I correct them when they’re not using their heads. It really is for their own good.”

I snicker at her flippant attitude and wave her back to stay in her seat as I gather the plates to clean.

Sae gripes. “I bet you all those fancy government brains didn’t stop to think about how all these big strong workers are going to eat. I don’t see them making a hearty meal after ten hours of carrying bones and digging holes, do you?”

I shake my head solemnly, and raise my eyebrows following her train of thought. “Yes, maybe I’ll talk to the gents over at the house about getting my weekly rate increased to cook for the crews. They’ll still need to chip in with the prep work and cleanup, but I can make sure they got a warm meal from Greasy Sae in their bellies. Girlie, you might be looking District 12’s first restauranteur.”

That’s Seam ingenuity at work. Her counter at the Hob may be long gone, but Sae’s a shrewd businesswoman, she can make a counter anywhere.

I finish up the dishes and pull out my boots. Lacing them up, I tell her, “I’ll check the snares. Should be back by noon. I’ll look out for some spots to set up more lines, Chef Sae.” If she’s going to go from feeding ten to sixty, she’s going to need more game to supplement the deliveries.

Out in the woods, most of the snares are empty, but for one well-fed raccoon. Mixed in with the beef delivery, Sae will make sure no one will ever know. I find locations to put another handful of snares and plan to return in the next day or two to put them in place.

After dropping the raccoon off, I offer to take Ana with me as I work in the back garden, or as it currently stands, my very large pit of dirt. There, I clean up the pathways, making straight lines between the soil beds. I hand a pail to Ana and show her how to throw the wood ash and pine needles I’ve gathered onto the mounds. It should help the soil but more so, it delights the silly girl so.

Sometime I think she’s like me and just prefers to not deal with all the trouble that comes with socializing. Ana’s silence is only interrupted by her giggles, and that seems like a perfectly acceptable life choice.

After I bring her back to Sae’s for the evening, I return to my porch to sit and swing. The Meadow is probably already starting to flower. You could always count on the Meadow to have valuable little weeds most would overlook.

In two days, when they bring the digging machines to rip up the fertile ground, will all those seedlings disappear? Does any life have any hope of ever blooming again when blanketed over such death.

I want to keep some of the Meadow pure and unsullied, in case, after next week, the blooms are gone forever.

I can plant all the wildflowers outside Prim’s window. She would have loved to wake up and look out onto a field of flowers. There should be some sprouting herbs she and my mother would have used for healing too. Digging them up and transplanting them would be much faster than working from seeds, and I like the idea of a row of District 12’s heartiest weeds clustered together in unity.

That night I dream of that awful day at the barricades. Of her blonde braid flying as she turns, looking for me, just before the fire swallows her whole. One moment my perfect little sister, so strong and unstoppable, doing the work she loves, and then…just… just gone. I’m on my hands and knees clawing at the ground looking for any evidence that she was there, there must be something, but there’s nothing but ash. And as I try and gather the dust, a great wind forces it from my clutches, disappearing forever. Leaving me with nothing.

I wake and run to the bathroom, dry heaving. My skin is clammy and I quickly strip and step under a stream of cold water. I shiver under the icy stream, but I start to feel more human again. I slowly turn the dial towards warmer temperatures and let my body slide down the tile wall. I pull my knees into my chest and sit under the spray.

I hate the nighttime. I’ll be doing okay and then a nightmare like that will come along and rip my heart out. As I dry off, I feel the pull of my bed. I want so much to crawl in and never crawl out again. But I resist the temptation.

It’s still dark out, probably somewhere around five. _You need to keep moving, Katniss_. With all that is about to happen in the district, I have a strong feeling this current theme of nightmares isn’t going to go away. Best to keep my eyes forward.

I dress for a long day in the woods and load my game bag with the supplies for new snares, a small spade from the yard, and a collection of used burlap sacks. I jot a quick note to Sae before filling a thermos of tea. With the crescent moon high and my eyes forward, I exit into the darkness.


	9. CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER IX

Early morning is my favorite time to be in the woods. With the rest of the world still sleeping, you feel much more in tune with every little detail. Even the air feels cleaner. I start hiking to a lookout point not too far from where I’ll want to set the new lines. There’s a large rock atop a gentle hill and I arrive just as the sky starts to lighten from black to a gentle blue. I pull out the thermos and decide to watch the sun rise.

Before the Games, this is something I would have never done. I appreciate nature, respect and value it, but it was always about its use. Fishing and hunting is best before the sun completely rises, that was what mattered. I’d never look at a sunrise and consider the movement of colors as one fades into the next or the way birdsongs change as the sun reaches higher in the sky. Honestly, I would have probably scoffed at someone who did that and rolled my eyes at their privilege.

I can’t help but feel pity for my younger self. Everyday she overlooked something special, I think as the colors and light wash over me. I’m sure my father wouldn’t have been so jaded about the sunrise, and yet there I was, so sure of the frivolity and waste. I suppose we were just too hungry. You can’t eat the sky’s palette of reds, yellows, and blues no matter how good they look.

I breathe in the steam from my tea. _Peeta would know the precise colors to describe this,_ I think to myself. For him, with his weakness for beautiful things, calling something red would never match the poetry of what he could see. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see the world as he does, recognizing the nuances between scarlet, rust, or ruby. It’s probably obvious, but to me it’s red, maybe a really red and a sort-of red, but that’s about all.

Does he still see the world that way, or did the Capitol take that from him too. Did someone play _Real or Not Real_ and remind him of his special ability? No matter what they made him think about me, I hope this part of him remained safe. It’s a precious gift, an innocent one.

I think about the boy who iced hundreds of cakes alongside his father and brothers. The biggest danger to his life back then was his witch of a mother. Now he’s an orphan. His entire family lies buried under the rubble of the bakery he decorated those countless cakes in, nothing but rocks left of his family legacy. He’s the last Mellark, just like I am the last Everdeen. I’m not sure I can describe the weight that fact carries, but I can feel it there. When I feel like drifting away, giving up, maybe to join my little duck and all of the others I long to see again, I feel that weight reminding me that there is… something… a responsibility maybe- I don’t know- as the last echo of my family line.

As I start working on the snares, my arms and fingers mostly on autopilot, my mind is stuck on Peeta and how alone he must feel. I know the ache of that lonesomeness. At least I have Sae; somehow she has decided I’m worth her effort. I hope he has Johanna, Delly, or Annie or hell, even Effie would do, she always adored him. Just someone who cares, because the rest of his blood is gone, soon to be buried with 7,000 others taken from this world too soon by a dictator hell-bent on revenge.

I finish the final knots and point myself towards the Meadow. I’ll check the lines as I pass, but my attention has shifted to liberating some wild sprigs for the garden. I keep my eyes peeled for the young edible greens that I know should be sprouting now that the frost is past. I fed our family for years on the innocuous greenery most would never know could not only chase away the hunger but also taste good.

I have luck finding salad greens in a patch of chickweed and later in some leafy dock and wild clovers. I dig out around the plants, keeping the roots safely intact, and wrap each root ball with the burlap and twine. My bag is already feeling heavy and I haven’t even gotten to the Meadow.

I pass by a triggered but empty snare. As I’m resetting it, my eyes catch the unusual orange-brown color of the slimy caps of velvet foots clustered on a fallen log. Unable to pass the opportunity for such a large haul, I collect a bagful, enough not only for a few fresh dinners but to dehydrate or jar as well. Feeling the weight already taking a toll, I cut back to the Village.

I leave my greens in the back garden, and bring the mushrooms to Sae. She absentmindedly hands me a plate with some bacon and eggs, too distracted by the culinary possibilities I’ve handed her.

I pick up the lost crumbs of bacon with a finger, “Did you hear where they’ll be today?”

She dumps the bag’s contents across the counter while she answers, “Mhmm, they’re off to the sites of the Justice Building and the train station.”

That information is a relief. They’ll be far from the Meadow all day. With my burlap and spade ready, I say my goodbyes and slip back into the woods. I go the long way to the Meadow, but it’s the path that avoids the entirety of the town and Seam.

As I climb over the fallen fence, past the last of the thicket, and cross into the Meadow I have to fight the urge to run through the open field, like a long since forgotten game of sisterly tag ready to be restarted. I walk to the middle of the field, turning around full circle to take in its entirety, before settling on my back, arms and legs spread wide gazing at the sky. _A bed of grass, a soft green pillow._ The lyrics of the lullaby drift back to me. If only I could sleep here every night. Maybe hidden in the wildflowers the nightmares couldn’t find me.

Remembering my purpose, I take stock of my surroundings. I’ll obviously take a few bundles of dandelions, mostly for sentimental reasons. I know they’ll make me smile someday. I look around and see leafy patches sprouting where I recall rich purple violets typically bloom. Across the field are the early stalks of white yarrow and Queen Anne’s lace, both recognizable from the days of gathering them for my mother. I load up my large bag with burlap-bound samples of each. I keep two of the largest sacks set aside for the wild strawberry patch that I know is tucked away at the eastern end of the Meadow and one of the smaller honeysuckle bushes near to the perimeter where my home in the Seam once stood. From my countless childhood visits, I remember exactly where each one is. The thought of them being bulldozed down is beyond the pale.

Though bare from winter, both the strawberry and honeysuckle plants are cumbersome and larger than my small frame should drag when already burdened with a hefty game bag of wildflowers. I have to stop to rest five or six times on the walk back to the Village. My arms will be sore in the morning but I don’t want to risk the chance of delaying. Tomorrow machines will arrive, and everything will change. There’s little doubt that by tomorrow there will be workers in the Meadow prepping the site. It feels like my last real chance for an afternoon alone in my sacred place, my last chance to salvage any memories blooming in the sun.

That night my nightmares are filled with deep pits and frightening metal machines. They claw in grabbing piles of bodies like the Game’s hovercrafts. I see Finn and Prim limp and dangling. Cinna, Boggs, Messalla, Homes and Jackson, Castor, Wiress… one after another dumped unceremoniously next to, on top of, below, hundreds of others. I lose sight of them, lost among the masses. They’re left under a massive mound of dirt and I don’t where to find them. These are my people. Why can’t I find them? I should know where they are so I know that they are safe, that they’ve for peace in their final rest.

It is another night of poor sleep and an early morning, but this day feels like a particularly bad one. A sense of dread fills me. It’s no divine skill or premonition; I just know what’s coming. The bulldozers and diggers are invading our district today. At least that’s better than being surprised. I’m not sure what the shock would have done to me but I imagine it would not have been pretty. Once again, I’m grateful for Sae and her predisposition for surveillance.

I pick up Buttercup, who has taken to sleeping at the foot of my bed to keep watch, and stroke his mangled head, anchoring myself back to the real world. What a charming pair we make. I grab the quilt I stole from Peeta, haul the giant orange monster into my arms, and plod down the stairs. My old friend the rocking chair is set near the front bay windows, perfect for watching the neighborhood from the asylum of my own home.

I rock, curled up in the fading smell of baked goods and boy, listening to the soothing rhythm purring from the cat. Hours pass before I see the shape of Sae and Anabel crossing down the avenue. Ana’s eyes are closed, still too tired to open them, and seems content to trust Sae to lead her to the correct destination.

When Sae finds me back in the rocking chair, I see her face grimace with worry. But when I turn and give her a tired and sad smile, she relaxes. “You got room up there for one more?

“Give her here,” I answer as I open an arm for Anabel to climb in. Like the sound of Buttercup’s purrs and the scent of the quilt, her weight is a comfort. They’ll all hold me to the ground. They keep me from drifting away.

I can smell that Sae’s put something wonderful into the oven. She comes to sit beside me while it bakes. We both sit in silence watching the sun rise higher. One by one, her houseguests leave for the day, exiting through the main Village gates.

“It all starts today, don’t it?” Melancholy tints her voice.

“Is it the end or the beginning?” I ask in reply, knowing already the answer is both and yet neither.

“There’s an old saying from the dark days that your gran used to say: ‘New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings’. That seems to fit us real well I think. You, my girl, got plenty of pain. It’d be nice to see if some new beginnings could sprout out from that.”

My eyes start to glisten and I’m unable to stop the fat tear from rolling silently down my cheek. “I want to be like springtime,” I whisper, barely audible and unsure of how the words slipped out. Oh, but how I’d like for something good, something new and beautiful, to grow out of the frozen desolation of my life. Some new beginning that would make it seem like some part of this nightmare might have been worth it. It seems too much to ask.

Sae strokes my face, removing any trace of the tear. “Then you best remember that your pa named you after a flower, a hardy adaptable one at that. He was a smart man, knew what he was looking at as soon as he first saw you. You’ll bloom when it’s right."

I spend the rest of the morning keeping my hands active. Idleness, I know, is my enemy today. I work for hours under the sun, finding proper homes for yesterday’s finds. The row outside of Prim’s old window for all of the wildflowers and field greens of 12 builds itself. Most would say they have no business in a garden, nothing more than weeds, but these are the plants my father taught me to find. These are the plants that saved our lives.

Late in the afternoon, I hear a distant train whistle and know that the equipment has arrived. The sound sends a shiver down my spine and I decide it will be in my best interest to head deep into the woods for the rest of the day, far from the activity that will soon be taking place.

My feet lead me back to my grove of birches. _He knew what he was looking at as soon as he first saw you,_ Sae said. He was right about one thing; I am a survivor just like the katniss that grows down near the lake. Stubborn little things. _Just like these trees_. Did he know how important his lessons would become? Or was he just passing on silly old tales and honoring his favorite tuber, I think sarcastically.

_No_ , my father never did anything without reason. He knew the odds were never going to be in our favor. The best he could do was make sure I grew up strong and steady. He gave me deep roots to anchor me. Roots to grow like a birch, to bend but not break.

_Pa, your songbird is little bit broken, but I am still singing._

Needing to keep my hands busy, I gather up more twigs and branches. With my knife, I start repeating the process from a week ago. They’ll be five houses filled with new faces in about twenty-four hours. By the sound of it, weary faces who have seen far too much brutality. Many may be the same ones who had to bury those lost in District 8’s hospital bombing.

A wreath, a small symbol of welcome greeting them, may help them feel better about the work they’re about to do on behalf of our district. It will be less painful for outsiders to bury our dead, but it will always feel like something is wrong with not taking care of our own.

As I knot them to the Village doors at the end of the day, it feels like I am leaving a blessing on each house, one of protection and determination. Or maybe it’s more a reminder that the workers inside are being trusted with our people. As we would hang our own wreaths on our doors while in mourning, the responsibility now falls on them.

Really, it’s all in my head though. To those arriving it’ll probably just be a shabby circle of sticks decorating a door.

But I’ll know and I think my family would be proud.


	10. CHAPTER X

CHAPTER X

That night, at the dinner table, exhaustion begins to hit me. The day has worn me down, especially due to repetitive nights of poor sleep. I find myself drifting off over my plate and eventually find the energy to push one foot in front of the other until I reach the couch and promptly drift to sleep.

When my eyes open I find myself standing across from the bakery. It looks just as I remember it from growing up in 12. Its aged yellow hand-painted sign hangs in front of the dark store. The display case Prim and I often looked through longingly on our walks home from school is empty and pristinely cleaned for the night. The lights glow through the windows on the upstairs level where the family home is attached, the sound of the television floating down.

What was it like for Peeta to grow up here? This is where he learned to walk to catch up with his older brothers, where he learned to bake alongside he father, and where he learned with icing sugar that he had a rare gift in dreary 12, a talent for making beautiful things.

I watch the home, reveling in its simple domesticity until I recognize that the sound carried down is of the Games, my Games. The Quell. I hear my voice screaming for Peeta, Finnick trying to get me to step away from the lightning tree, a pause and then the sound of a blast immediately followed by silence.

The district plummets into darkness.

I know what night this is. I know what happens next.

While they think they are safely tucked away, distracted by theories of what I just did in the Arena or the cause of the blackout, across the district Peacekeepers are evacuating and the apprehensive in the Seam are preparing to do the same. But in Town, suspicion hasn’t been bred into them. Townies haven’t had to learn that you always trust your canary in the coalmine and you always expect the worst.

They believe their homes are safe, but don’t they know? With Snow, nowhere is safe.

I need to warn them, they need to run. Maybe they can catch up with Gale and Thom. They saved the blacksmith’s family, why not the baker’s too?

I shout at the house but no one can hear me. I see Mr. Mellark at the upstairs window, but no matter how I scream he can’t hear me calling. I start to run to the bakery entrance as the sound of approaching hovercrafts sends me into a panic. I’ll break down the door, shatter a window - something – anything - to get their attention. They have to leave. They have to leave _now_.

I don’t make it three steps before the rhythmic blasts of bombs begin.

I feel like I’m in the first Games again, disoriented after the blast at the supply pile. My hearing is gone, the ringing and underwater muffle silencing the sounds of buildings crumbling and families screaming for help. The domestic scene of the baker and his home is now filled with fire. I look for anyone. Maybe one of his athletic brothers can escape the blast. However, through the smoke, I don’t see the thick silhouettes of the Mellark brothers. All I see is my little Primrose. Dressed in her medic’s uniform from 13.

_What is she doing here_?

She’s supposed to be safe. She’s supposed to be in the Meadow right now, helping Gale with those escaping into the woods. She doesn’t belong here. Here, staring at me calmly, unbothered by the destruction around her, the serpent-like inferno starting to swallow her whole. I try and find a way through the flames to get to her, but they keep pushing me back, blistering my skin. The last remaining walls of the building crumble. It snuffs out the flames as well as every living thing inside.

I jolt awake, my head screaming in pain as my hands try to find a surface to steady me. I’m on the hardwood floor, having fallen from the couch. I bring a hand to my head and hiss as I feel a tender spot beginning to swell. Must have smacked something on my way down.

I begin to panic again. _She’s in there, I saw her. She’s buried in the rubble; I know it._ She shouldn’t be trapped there; she shouldn’t be a part of the wreckage. It’s not right. She’s been pinned under those ruins for months. I need to get her. She’s mine. She’s my blood, my happiness, my responsibility to take care of. She should be someplace beautiful. Someplace where I can visit her and know she is now safe not lost amongst the ashes.

_No, no wait._ Like a supply train from the Capitol, reality hits me.

Prim isn’t really buried in the rubble of the bakery. It was just a nightmare. She isn’t there. She made it to 13.

_But Peeta,_ my heart whispers _._ Peeta’s family is there. Peeta’s family is about to become four of the thousands of nameless in a mass grave. About to become four of the bodies collected by strangers, who although I’m sure are nice, never knew the Mellarks.

They don’t know that Mr. Mellark was kind and would overvalue my trades when he knew times were tough. He was a father who loved his sons and likely single-handedly molded them into decent men. He didn’t always protect them as a father should but he made sure to love them enough for two. I didn’t know them well, but even from afar I knew the elder son was hardworking, an overachiever, and the middle son, was all winks and laughter. And Mrs. Mellark, well I don’t have much to say that wouldn’t be unkind, but she did bring three strong sons into this world, so there must have been something tolerable in her.

_This is wrong,_ a voice murmurs inside me _. If you were Peeta, you would never want this for your family_.

That is true. I would _never_ leave them there _._ If it was my mother, father, and sister lying under all that debris, I’d make sure every care was taken with them. I can so clearly remember standing in the moonlight, staring at the blocked-off mine entrance where my fathers body was forever entombed. Even at 11, I remember the demanding duty to claw at the wall of rubble to reach his remains. Yes, if it was my family, my own hands would ensure they found a proper place to rest, a place I could feel close to them to visit the last threads of my family line whenever I felt lost and alone.

_Damn it._

> _Because that's what you and I do, protect each other. *_

That’s what I said, isn’t it? And I meant it. I know it, deep in the marrow of my bones, that it was the truth. I may have sucked at being in love or even being generally nice to him. But protect him? That felt as natural to me as breathing.

When he learns what happens, this will _hurt_ him. He’s had so much pain already, pain I haven’t been able to prevent. But maybe, maybe I can prevent this. Or at least soften its pain. To shield him from heartbreak, when he realizes that the remnants of his family are lost forever among the masses, and self-loathing at failing to meet the responsibilities that weigh on him as the last Mellark because he wasn’t able to be here.

I know that weight and I know the self-loathing at not being capable of taking care of your family. I desperately tried to find a way to go into the mines and find my father’s remains, obviously with no success. I faced the same failure after the bombs went off in City Circle. I was unconscious for too long and was told there was nothing left from the blast. Nothing but a memory of her.

But I’m here now.

I’m here, and I can do something _. Anything._

I look at the clock on the wall and see it’s only ten past midnight. I stand quickly, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that hits.

_What do I need?_ My mind is moving too quickly. I find some thick clothing and old boots, trying to cover every bit of skin I can. I tightly tie up my hair, slip on a large knit cap and scarf for my face, and dig out some workman’s gloves. If I have any hope of making it through this, I don’t want to touch or smell any more than absolutely necessary.

Down in the basement I dig out a large lantern and tuck away a box of matches in my pocket. In the corner, I spy a pile of fine never-used leather-bound trunks. The leather is dark and elegant with shiny grommets lining the edges. I pull out the second largest, place the lantern inside, and carry the load upstairs. At the last moment, I think to grab some soft sheets from the linen closet and add them to the trunk. Using my game bag, I strap a shovel to my back and take a deep breath to steady my nerves.

_Please don’t let this be a mistake._

I stick to the shadows, careful to be as quiet and hidden as possible. No one is out, my district still abandoned except for the dozen or so of us in the Village, but I can’t stop the effect from years of sneaking about. I haven’t gone to Town since returning to 12. The memories of my visits here during the war were more than enough fuel for my nightmares to know that I would never need to see it again. Never say never, I guess.

As I near what I know will be the perimeter of the bomb site, I stop.

_This is a bad idea._ An absolutely terrible idea. _What am I thinking?_ No sane person would do this. Not even a questionably sane person would. And a doctor, a doctor would definitely never approve of it.

_Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t talk to my doctor_ , I think to myself wryly.

My instincts are pushing me forward, unrelenting. My instincts have led me into many illogical and seemingly terrible ideas: going to the Cornucopia for the Feast, abandoning my plans to instead go find Peeta at the river, shooting an electrified arrow at the Arena forcefield, disobeying orders so to down the bombers in 8, or straight up goading a man in 2 to shoot me. I stand by them, though. I don’t really regret a single one. Obviously no one would ever endorse or encourage my instincts, but I know they’ve rarely let me down.

I keep my gaze locked on each foot as it steps in front of the other. The darkness is my friend tonight. It’s impossible to see much around me, keeping my vision clear from the magnitude of what is likely surrounding me. I’ve walked this path thousands of times, I need to see very little to get to where I know the bakery once stood. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right.

When I know I am close, I lift my eyes from my toes. I look at what was once my district partner’s home, and try not to cry. The frame of the bakery must have been wood, because very little of it is left. All that remains is what could have withstood the flames. After months of sitting untouched, the site is heartbreaking to look at. I should have come sooner. I can’t let them stay here another day.

_You can do this, Katniss, you can do this_ , I chant in my head as trembling hands light the lantern. I know I should begin on the west side of the property as I am nearly certain that was where the family would have been, but the remnants of the bakery call out to me.

It isn’t all broken chips of cement and ash. Peeking out of the black and grey are artifacts hinting at what this place once was. Shattered ceramic bowls and gnarled remains of metal pans. On the far eastern side of the wreckage is a pile of bricks. That must have been where the ovens once stood.

I don my gloves and tighten the scarf around my nose and mouth. Kneeling down in the pile, I dust off one of the more intact bricks and see the red color of the clay on the bottom face of the shape where it was untouched by the soot.

With care, I walk the brick over to place beside the trunk. I can’t explain why, but I start to sift through the bakery for intact pieces of what the place once was. I uncover a ceramic shard of what was once a mixing bowl and find an unusually large whisk that I think I may be able to reshape. It’s not much, but it is something.

After about a half hour, I walk out of what once was the kitchen and toward what must have been the front counter by the evidence of the broken register. Walking over its pieces, the steel of my boot toe clangs as it hits a solid piece of metal. I catch myself before falling flat on my face and turn back to look for whatever tripped me.

There, buried under shards of glass and chunks of blackened bits, is a metal box. Picking up the roughly shoebox-sized container, I can feel it has weight. I gently shake it, and by the sound of its contents, something may be safely preserved inside. My glove-covered fingers run along the edge of the box, looking for a seam or a lock, but it is crushed shut.

I add the mysterious box to the small pile of found items and know it is time to start making my way to the west side of the property. I can’t keep putting it off. I straighten my spine and gather my courage. _For Peeta,_ I repeat, _I can do this for Peeta._

My steps become much more careful with the knowledge of what I might step on at any moment.

Hours pass, clearing large pieces of rubble and sifting through what was obscured beneath them. I’ve grown hot and sweaty under my claustrophobic clothing, but I refuse to loosen or remove any items. They are my armor; I need them to protect me from the awful world that surrounds me.

By about 3 AM, I find my first bones. When my eyes catch the domed shape of what could only be a human skull, I drop the charred beam I had been lifting, startled at the sight. I stand, hands shaking, and take deep breaths to calm my heart rate back down.

_This is why you’re here Katniss, don’t think, just focus on the task_.

I swallow my fear and carry over the leather trunk to unfold the first silky sheet. _Come on Katniss, you can do this. Keep it together_.

One by one I uncover a bone and place it on the sheet. I don’t think about what the specific bones once were, and definitely don’t let myself think about who they were. I’ve disconnected my thoughts as much as possible and force myself to get lost in the action. I look for the telltale signs of what is likely bone, gently move it to the sheet, and repeat. No thinking.

What might be two bodies are recovered and wrapped into the sheet before being placed inside the leather trunk. _Don’t think about it. Just keep digging._ About an hour and a half later, two become four. I close the trunk lid, gather up all of the supplies and place the items from the kitchen in my bag before quickly heading to the nearest woods, not looking back.

_I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,_ I repeat in my head, trying to calm myself from the panic attack that isn’t too far away from surfacing. Once I make it into the depth of the trees, I release my heavy loads and crumble under an old pine tree. My back flush against the bark of the tree, I try to focus on what to do next but a massive sob wracks through my body.

_Stop it, Katniss! You can’t loose it yet._

I need a place to bury them, someplace safe, someplace untouched by the Capitol.

The woods would be right for someone like me, but the Mellarks would never wander into the wilderness outside the fence and it feels wrong to leave them there. I walk towards the Meadow, knowing it is one of the only unmarred places left. The open field of the Meadow will soon be hallowed out for the remaining lost souls of 12. The massive digging machines parked at its center.

It is right for the Mellarks to be buried near their neighbors, memorialized together. I know that, I do. However, I am also sure that the family, Peeta’s family, needs to rest together and somewhere where he could mourn them with some privacy from watchful, prying eyes.

I cross into the overgrown outside periphery of the Meadow, away from the machinery, so dense they could never access. About a quarter of the way around, a few yards deep, I find a pair of willow trees. Their currently bare branches weep towards the damp ground. Come the summer, those branches will provide thick, lush cover from any passing by.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow._ The lyrics hit me again. Yes, this is where they should rest.

I untie the shovel and dig deep into the dirt. I underestimated how difficult it is to dig an adequately deep hole. My muscles scream in overuse, but I force the burn to fuel the next cut deeper. Once deep enough, I place the trunk into the hole and cover it with earth. The dirt overflows and I clean up the remaining mound. Look at the resting place, I realize the scarf around my mouth is damp with tears. I forcefully wipe my cheeks and quickly stand, leaving my supplies behind, and dash deeper into the woods. There’s a brook near here; I’m sure of it. I’ll follow the soil until it leads me to its source.

With a jacket full of smooth, multicolor stones from the brook, I return to the Mellark grave. Stone by stone, I carefully position them on top of the overturned dirt, making it clear that this is now a sacred spot.

When finished, I stay kneeling unsure of what to do. Should I say something? Beyond my trading, I don’t think I ever said more than a dozen words to them, but it feels wrong to just turn and leave.

But I’ve never been any good with words.

I take off my gloves. Bringing my three fingers to my lips to kiss them, I press them against the stones.

I stare down at my fingertips, now stained with dirt and ash.

_From dust to dust._

I hope I’ve done the right thing. I have to trust that he will someday understand.

I delicately gather up the loaded bag, knowing the items that lay inside will be precious to Peeta someday. With the shovel in one hand and the snuffed lantern in the other, I drift back to the Village.

The sun will be rising soon. An army of workers will soon follow. This is the dawning of a new District 12.

* * *

_*Quote from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	11. CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XI

I have just enough time to scrub off and have a thorough emotional breakdown on the floor of the shower. I was a ticking time bomb, bottling up so much, but crying it out within the confines of my shower stall helps immensely. I am sure I’ve still got some remaining issues deeply buried, but for now I think I can function without appearing out of sorts. I tuck away the bag of found items from the bakery and put aside the soiled clothing I am certain I’ll burn as soon as possible. I never want to touch any one of them again.

Hearing activity downstairs in the kitchen, I follow the noise only to stop in my tracks at the sight of a semi-sober Haymitch at my table. It’s been a long night. This is a rare sight and at this time in the morning it is likely a hallucination.

“You look like shit, sweetheart,” he grunts from behind his coffee mug.

“Back at you, Haymitch,” I mumble back. “Long night,” I explain without detail. He nods, already assuming as much. My face surely displays enough signs of a lack of sleep.

With a cup of tea, I join him at the table.

“You ready for this?” he asks to which I only reply with a raised eyebrow. “Alright, alright, stupid question. You going to be okay though, right? Sae said you’d be fine, but had to check for myself. Can’t always trust an old lady’s senses”

“Idiot men,” I swear I hear Sae mutter from the kitchen counter.

“Hey, my liver may be busted, but my ears are doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“Won’t be for long if I clap you over them,” she replies as she sets the plates in front of us. “You’re long overdue – maybe I’ll get my wooden spoon out instead.”

Sae pours herself her own cup of coffee and joins the two of us. “Keep those fantasies to yourself, you dirty old crone.” Sae’s wicked look in reply is finally enough for me to break and I can’t resist chuffing at the ridiculous start to the day.

“So you got any details to share from your fancy connections?” Sae asks. He must have been in some contact with Plutarch or someone from the new government.

“The train will be here by one o’clock. They signed on a crew of 54 workers for this first week. They’ll be spread among five of the other Village houses. I got confirmation that they are all the ones farthest away from us, but beware of any curious or stupid ones who wander down this way. No shooting them, sweetheart,” he adds, “already promised the brass you wouldn’t.”

I roll my eyes, “Anything, else?”

“Plutarch’s convinced Paylor that rebuilding and resettling 12 is a high priority. He practically recited a sonnet. Nutcase. But that means lots of people in and out. 54 today, more in two weeks. I think they’ll start by inviting the families with trade skills to move back and join in on the rebuild and, by summer, we’ll be lucky if Plutarch himself isn’t strutting around 12 like a proud father. I’ll keep checking in with my contacts so we can have some good insider information and a better schedule to work off of.”

I snort at his proud display and I stand up and cross to the living room. Returning with the notebook, I open to the detailed section about the proposed timeline. “They still plan on turning Reaping Day into some sort of nationwide party?” I ask, flipping through the notes.

The silence causes me to look up.

“How the hell did you know that?” Haymitch asks aghast.

I smirk and glance over to Sae. She leans back, lounging in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and gesturing with her head in approval. I close the book and slide it across the table to Haymitch.

He squints his eyes in scrutiny, so I tap the cover of the book. Opening it and scanning, he quickly goes from huffy to engrossed. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hear him mumble.

Sae and I watch him, sipping our drinks as he hungrily flips through the pages.

Looking between the two of us, “You two…,” he starts, then slows, “…you two are a dangerous combination. What demon placed me in isolation with the likes of you both?” He turns to Sae, “Was it your idea to send this one on reconnaissance missions?” he asks. “Never mind, of course it was, you sneaky old thing. Shoulda’ remembered, it’s never safe to turn your back on a girl from the Seam.” I snort into my tea.

“Hold up - so, why the hell did I have to listen to Plutarch and Beetee blather on for hours if little birdie here was already up a tree listening in on top secret government meetings?”

Sae cackles, “Oh don’t go getting your knickers in a twist just because you didn’t think of it first. We can’t just trust these fools without supervision. And girlie here may be able to listen in on meetings and I may pick up a thing or two in conversations around the house, but you got an ear to the bigwigs and politicians. And you know that windbag Plutarch will accidentally slip something juicy during your phone calls. Come on Abernathy, you must be getting slow in your old age,” she quips.

“Woman, if you weren’t my sole source of solid food, I swear I would-,” “Typical man, thinkin’ with his stomach,” she cuts him off. Haymitch tosses his fork down in protest but doesn’t argue.

“Now here’s what I’ve learned,” Sae starts, bringing the point of this conversation back into focus. “They’ve hired me to keep all them boys fed. They got some kind of military packs for lunch, but I’ll dish up breakfast and dinner. Breakfast is at six-thirty and dinner at seven. My house has been turned into some kind of headquarters so if it’s alright with you, Ana and I may be over here more than usual to escape their testosterone. I, at minimum, will need your kitchen for awhile but I won’t say no to a spare hand every so often.”

I nod in consent. Of course they’re welcome, Anabel especially is going to want to hide from all the strange faces and Sae is likely to start spanking workman once they begin to push her buttons too far.

“They got another huge food shipment coming in on the train today, but I’ll need all the fresh game you got to pad up the meat they’re sending me. These boys’ll need a proper serving size.”

I nod again. I’m not stupid, that was not a request.

“They say anything more specific about the plans for this first week?” Haymitch asks. “They still think they’ll have our folk buried in the Meadow by the next weekend,” Sae answers softly. “Then next week, there’s talk of splitting the crews in two. One’s s’pose to begin setting up for demolition and the other might be building some kind of large cabin just outside the Village gates to house added crews. That’s all I’ve got for now.”

“So am I now included in the two of you’s spy game?” Haymitch asks.

“Welcome to team - oh, that reminds me! Katniss, they’ll be having the welcome meal and meeting after dark tonight three doors down from here. At my recommendation, they’ll be in the back gathering around a few fires since they can’t all fit inside.”

I close my eyes, picturing which yard that would be and turn up a corner of my lips. “A coincidence how that house has the thickest copse of trees behind it?” I ask. “Isn’t it just,” she hums back.

“Dangerous,” I hear Haymitch muttering, “the stuff of nightmares,” as he walks out the back door.

By the afternoon, I’ve checked the snares for Sae, bringing back three hares, and caught a few hours of sleep on the couch. I thought I’d clear out some cupboards and cabinets in the kitchen to prepare for Sae, but it turns out the place is already bare

She will be arriving soon with her cart full of supplies, but the waiting is starting to make me twitchy. I realize I’m staring at the clock ticking by and lightly slap my own face to get a grip. Grabbing a small log from the pile near the fireplace, I settle into the rocking chair still situated at the front windows and dig out my smaller knife. I keep my hands busy, working the wood without any specific result in mind. As the chips fall to the floor, my mind relaxes.

My father and I used to sit by the lake and carve while we would wait for a fish to nibble on our line. Those were always such peaceful days. Sometimes we would sit in silence together, working side by side. Others would be filled with his low voice telling me tales and legends he learned at his own father’s knee.

There was one story about a lady who lived in a lake and gave out magical swords to good kings but also trapped powerful men inside Hawthorne trees when they annoyed her by flirting too much. _Seems like a reasonable response to me_. Another tale was about eerily beautiful half-fish half-women that would lure sailors to their deaths. One of my favorites was about a powerful being who was so disappointed in how terrible people had become, that he made it rain for forty days and forty nights. He flooded the entire world, only sparing the one family that was hardworking and righteous. But the best part was the boat full of animals. I loved that one. I couldn’t help but picture my family with little Prim arms crossed negotiating with the bears and lions to behave while we went on our big exciting boat ride.

I loved his stories. Hearing old stories told in public was rare, Snow’s doing I guess, but my father never could resist spinning a tale when we were off on our own. His were always so strange and captivating. He would see some ordinary thing- a tree, a rabbit, a sunrise - and then begin weaving a story so otherworldly it would carry me away from dreary 12 for a short time.

My knife slips when my eyes catch movement at the front gates. In the distance a swarm of men begins to materialize. The knife and half-chiseled wood clatter to the floor as I lose all interest. A sea of fifty men, loaded with large knapsacks and several carts of supplies, cross the threshold of the Village. These are sturdy workers, tough and hulking, as evidenced by the movement of their gaits.

With each step closer to my home, my sanctuary, I can feel the beginnings of a panic attack. _Not safe. I’m not safe. Hide. Need to hide._ When from my ankle I feel the tickle of fur as Buttercup kneads his head against me. We stare at each other, his feline eyes challenging me. When I begin to gasp for air, he meows in irritation and bumps my leg with his head again. Apparently he’s decided that he’s not in the mood to watch me fall apart and hide in closets today. I can’t decide if that infuriates me or endears him to me.

“Fine, fine,” I mutter as I pick him up in my arms and stare out the window again. “What do you think, you orange monster? Allies or enemies?” Buttercup clearly doesn’t care one way or another. His lack of interest in the hoard of newcomers could almost be humorous. Mostly he just seems pleased to have won our little stare off. Smug little shit.

Groups begin to peel off to their temporary new homes. As the crowd thins, from the masses a single cart piled high with crates and cooking supplies takes the lead. At the center of the towers of kitchen items are Sae and Anabel, riding on the man-pushed cart as if they are some kind of royalty.

When the cart doesn’t stop at Sae’s, I quickly remember that she is going to be cooking here. _Here. Oh no, they’re coming here._ I stumble back from the window and my heart begins pounding. From my chest, Buttercup growls. Realizing my hands have seized and are now gripping his body too tightly, I will them to release and place him on the sofa.

I can begin to hear voices, a warning of their nearness. _Too close._

Sae, wouldn’t let these strangers into my home. She wouldn’t risk me having a meltdown in front of people I don’t trust. _She wouldn’t do that to me, right?_ I move towards the front door and press my body flush against the wall. I have a second knife in my boot if I need it. From here, I can see and hear but still hide.

“I don’t want it out front. Bring it to the far side of the house,” I hear Sae’s voice command. The path to the kitchen is more direct from the back door, but I have an inkling that it is more so that nothing, or likely no one, is on display. I tiptoe towards the side of the house as they proceed en route.

“Here you are Miss Sae. Where should we take the larger items?” I hear a masculine voice ask.

“Now aren’t you boys gentlemen. Don’t know how I want to arrange things yet, so best just put those big boxes and sacks right by the door. I’ll take care of the rest later,” Sae answers as relief flows into my bones. “If you’re sure, ma’am…” he replies. Her face must be clear enough to snuff his protests.

After several minutes of thuds and grunts, Sae’s voice thanks them for their labors. “You boys go and settle into your new place now. I’ve got things well in hand from here and you got a difficult day ahead of you. Go on now and scoot.” I hear their laughter as they make their goodbyes and head for the street.

When the back door opens and Sae’s silhouette fills the frame, I don’t speak a word as I wrap my arms around her in gratitude.

“What a greeting,” Sae chuckles. “Don’t think you’ll be so friendly once you see the pile of supplies I’ve got for you to carry inside. Who knows what those government dolts decided to send.” She pats me on the back and we walk outside to look at the small mountain she’s brought.

Piece by piece I carry the items in. Sae examines the contents then organizes the kitchen accordingly. The government has sent an impressive amount of non-perishables that will be valuable fillers to the meals that Sae will insist be centered on fresh meat and greens. She was of course correct in the premonition that they wouldn’t scale the proteins to match the men’s physical demands. But what they have delivered are quality cuts and Sae seems confident that she can bolster them with wild game without notice to taste. They’ve also sent two massive burlap sacks filled with what we guess is a fine white flour for bread and some kind of course cereal grain. Being from the Seam, we’ve only had Tesserae grain, so both of us are clueless on what exactly to do with them.

“Times like this, we could really use a baker,” I hear Sae mumble under her breath as she stares at the sacks. I can’t help but feel the same, but for likely different reasons. 

Over the next three hours, the empty kitchen transforms into one exploding in food. It makes the room feel so much more alive than it was this morning. Quietly, I wasn’t convinced that I would handle having Sae in my kitchen, impeding on my solitude. I would have never said it, never had the heart to not give Sae the help she asked for, but concern was there. An urge to draw my curtains closed and keep my home shut up like a tomb. But looking around, feeling the energy that the room now pulses with, I can see that this will be good for me in the long run.

Sae pulls out several massive pots and pans and begins tossing items in. It’s like watching someone move across a dance floor. It doesn’t appear she is conscious of her steps; her body flows from move to move. It is proof of the lifetime worth of doing this work. There is a quiet and steady confidence that can’t be taught.

She’s braising the hare with pounds of fragrant sausage links delivered today and I’ve been cutting potatoes until my hands are pruned. She’s got to work fast today, so she is cooking with expediency in mind. And by half-past six, two plates are set aside for Haymitch and myself, and a smaller cart is loaded with the meal.

“They’ll be heading back here in about 10 minutes or so. You think you can get set up in the trees without drawing any notice?” Sae asks, as she reties her apron and straightens her hair. “’Course Sae.”

Costumed in the outfit from my previous adventure in eavesdropping, I watch from the dark treetops as the men trickle into the yard. At first glance, you can tell these are people who have seen terrible things. Sure, many wear scars or other physical signs of conflict, but I mean in their eyes and postures. You can see shades of death and destruction in every single one. I noticed it first when I met the other Victors during the Quell, and saw it again at the hospital in 8. That kind horror, that kind of loss, it leaves a mark inside your soul.

Their bearings have shifted since their afternoon arrival, no doubt due to the day spent surrounded by the indescribable damage of the district. Despite all I saw during the war, there is something especially stomach-churning about 12. I think it’s the sheer magnitude of destruction in combination with the indifference of the attack. It shows the unimaginable power that Snow wielded and the aloof cruelty with which he commanded it. No threat, no warning, just innocent citizens massacred without a shred of guilt. He never gave it a second thought.

Sae has set up a serving area, but it is up to them to dish out and clean up. Watching the transformation that occurs after their first bites is certainly noteworthy enough to share with Sae. I see many of them smile for the first time, a miracle of its own. Soft moans and conspiratorial looks between some are seen as they note their culinary good fortune. Those are all the markers of a job well done for Sae.

“Alright gentlemen, settle in” a single shout echoes above the din of different conversations. The fifteen or so workers still standing find places to get comfortable and the group directs their attention towards the house where the original eight are standing.

The large Sergeant from 2 steps forward, “Welcome to District 12, Renovo Unit. I am Sergeant Major Maximus, one member of this unit’s eight-member command team. I am the masonry specialist and government systems consultant for the Renovo Unit. Like many of you, I fought in the war, but the work we are doing here is less about hierarchy and orders and more about watching out for your team. Unless we’re in front of visiting officials, just stick to Max. I’d like to formally introduce each member of Command. Let’s start with our team members who call this district home. Thom?”

Max cedes the floor to Thom who nods to the other three members to step forward. “I’m Thom, this is Colton, Daven, and his father Wayland. Colt and I were both miners from what you will learn was called ‘the Seam’, and the Waylands were our town blacksmiths. We are here to represent our district citizens both living and dead and answer any questions you may have along the way.”

The locals step back into line and a deep voiced, dark-skinned man steps forward, “I’m Vern. Here from 8 mostly to manage you boys.” Some scattered chuckles sneak out at that. It’s clear many know him well and no introduction is needed. Then the final two men step forward, the second one shying behind the first. “I’m Nikolas, the electrical and utilities specialist. And this is our resident brain, Kelvin, here as team consultant on all things technological or when we need help doing really hard math.”

“Thom, you want to start with an overview of the district?” Nikolas asks.

Nodding, Thom steps forward again. “As you all have seen today, despite the district’s sizable landmass, District 12’s citizens were constrained to occupy only a small physical area, about six miles end to end. There was one major thoroughfare that ran from the Justice Building all the way to the mines. Each of you is receiving a map at this time.”

The sound of paper being passed can be heard under his words. “What we are calling Sectors 1 and 2, were mostly locations of government buildings, including the Justice Building, Square, and Peacekeeper headquarters. Sectors labeled 3 through 5 are what were considered ‘Town.’ This is where the trade families lived and worked. Homes were nicer, had partial utility access, were built out of sturdier materials, but were much closer together. Sectors 6 and 7 were known as the Seam, where the mining class lived. Homes were pretty much built out of kindling so very little survived the blaze. Finally Sector 8 is the mine. This area is on lockdown and completely prohibited at this time due to safety concerns.”

I can see Thom struggling to keep calm as he attempts to detach from the truth that this is his home not some random location.

“We believe that there are the remains of just over seven thousand citizens that need to be recovered. As you saw today, there are… there are bodies everywhere you look and they have been abandoned to the elements for too long. It is going to be a very difficult week for all of us.” His last sentence trails away at the end and Vern comes forward to relieve him.

“We’ll be breaking you up into crews based on your assigned house numbers. Your roommates are now your crew as well, so any domestic disputes will be reported to me immediately to mediate. I’ve spoken to a few of you already about joining the digging crew in the Meadow, located in Sector 6, where the recovered remains will be put to rest. Workday begins at seven and ends at six. Crews are free to manage their own break schedule as necessary. Specific project assignments or notes will be handed out in the morning. Max, you want to cover house rules?”

“Very well,” Max says. “First and foremost, you are to treat your assigned houses with respect. There are currently only twelve livable structures left in this district and we are occupying six of them. I expect each one to remain in its original condition for the next crews that follow.” The men nod and seem grateful for the lodgings. The Victor houses may be Capitol creations, but no one can say they are not luxurious.

“Other than our crew there are four other inhabitants of 12. You met Miss Sae and her granddaughter Anabel this morning. Sae is the treasure who has agreed to keep you fed. As you can tell by dinner, she is a boon to us, and you will respect her and her little one accordingly. She’ll serve breakfast at six thirty and dinner at seven every day. If she asks you for something, do it. She may look frail but she’s the last person I would ever cross.”

“A wise man,” Colton quips in response causing the crowd to softly laugh at his commentary.

“The remaining two inhabitants are the District 12 Victors, Mr. Abernathy and Ms. Everdeen. You will likely not see either one of them. Mr. Abernathy stays within the confines of his own residence but it is my understanding that Ms. Everdeen frequents the woods daily. I would be remiss if I did not remind you that these two are survivors of not just the Hunger Games but also the war. Don’t go wandering; I know I won’t be. I’d approach with caution, if I were you. ”

I feel myself flush at my mention. I mean, it’s true, both Haymitch and I are dangerous, but hearing it delivered so bluntly is a bit much. At least it seems like the warning has been understood, and any curiosity suppressed.

“Miss Sae is using Ms. Everdeen’s home for meal prep. You’ll see her and Anabel making the trip down there every day, but you will not approach the area unless at Miss Sae’s request. There will be zero tolerance for any intrusive or inappropriate behavior. Any questions before we call it a night?”

A man near one of the fires raises his hand to ask, “Is there likely to be additional work available following this first assignment? Me and my brothers would be interested in stayin’ on permanently.”

He gestures to the two very similar looking men next to him. They’d be identical if not for scar across the man speaking’s face and the beard on one of the other’s. I notice quite a few of the other men sit up in interest. They must be desperate for work or wish to be in a different place away from their own bad memories. Or maybe, like me, they are just trying to keep their minds and bodies busy.

Vern takes on answering, “Yes it is a possibility, but there may be breaks between for crew turnover. Come see me in a couple of days and we will discuss the options individually.”

Max claps him on the back, seconding the thought. “If that’s all, let’s head in. Tomorrow we start bright and early.”

I watch the crowd dissipate, some on their own, others in quiet conference with one or two others. The three brothers go up and greet Vern like an old friend and seem to make sure to shake the hands of our four District 12 representatives. I know I should leave in the chaos of departures, but I feel secure in the nest I’ve built for myself and not quite ready to depart. I try to fill in the notes I have missed but keep getting distracted by the scenes below. If this is how the birds feel as they perch from their branches, I can understand why they always seem to watch us in fascination from above.

“First thoughts?” Thom asks Wayland as he passes over a bottle of caramel colored liquor.

“They all seem like hard workers. No worries about that.” He takes a swig of the liquid, “Oh that’s nice. They handled looking at the damage much the same as we did. Affected but restrained. And the few that struggled, Vern caught sight of and put them on the Meadow crew.”

Wayland takes another long pull from the bottle and returns it to Thom. “Those brothers sound like they’re wanting to make 12 their home.” Thom hums in agreement as Vern joins them, “Avery and his brothers are all on their own now. Lost both their parents and their little sister. Don’t surprise me at all that they want to start someplace new. Suppose we may come across several with similar situations. Plutarch may be a boob, but he wasn’t wrong that this district carries a lot of symbolic importance.”

I suppose he is right. It seems much more understandable when he says it instead of Plutarch. My arrow hitting the forcefield started the war and my arrow hitting Coin ended it, but nothing has really marked a new beginning of things. Days just pass by one after another and you go on living. One day you’re afraid of dying and the next it’s all over and it’s supposedly safe.

_Is it really?_ How do you know? And can you trust it to last? What was it that Plutarch said?

> “ _We’re in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated.” *_

Maybe grand rebuilds, memorials, and celebration days are his attempts to make this the _time that sticks_. Or he’s just a buffoon who can’t resist a spectacle.

“You boys okay with the plans for body collection and burial? I know you signed off on them, but I still want to check,” Vern asks sympathetically.

Thom answers, “Thanks, really, but I think we all know that this is the best we can do under the circumstances. Each Sector will have a collection cart and crews will be encouraged to wrap remains together whenever it’s possible to distinguish. I think I speak for all of us when I say that I just want them safely buried. I can’t bear the idea of accidentally stepping on the pieces of another one of my neighbors.”

I don’t want to think about how many neighbors I’ve stepped on. I shudder, remembering the horrible reality of gathering up the bones of the Mellark family. The only pieces left of Peeta’s family. Was that only last night? It’s a miracle I’m still functioning.

Colton nudges Thom in the ribs. “You catch that hint of rabbit at dinner tonight? No way that was from the Capitol delivery.”

“Yeah, Colt,” Thom smirks softly in return, “it’s real nice to have a little local flavor for comfort. And,” he shrugs, “I don’t know, it’s just nice knowing she’s out there supporting us in her own way.”

* * *

_*Quote from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	12. CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XII

The next morning I wake, sore in places I forgot existed. I slept heavily all night, and continued to stay in bed past typical hours, the exhaustion from the previous 48 hours finally taking its toll. My sensitive ears woke me when Sae arrived to begin cooking breakfast an hour or so ago and I know it’s time for me to leave my asylum.

On the stove, Sae has two massive pots of oats boiling with some cream, but what catches my eyes is Sae armed with a cleaver staring at a massive pile of bananas as if they could attack any moment. A laugh bubbles out of my throat before I can stop it.

“Katniss! Child, you scared me to death!” She exclaims as her knife clatters out of her hands and onto the counter.

“Sorry, Sae,” I apologize, but can’t resist asking, “What did those bananas ever do to you?”

“Oh, I know yesterday you said these were some kind of prissy Capitol fruit, but now I’m not so sure if you weren’t just mocking an old lady. What am I supposed to do with them?” She waves a cluster in the air, bananas flopping about by their stems. “There are so many,” she huffs as she tosses them back on the counter and prods one with her knife tip. Any fruit, beyond the wild berries you might be lucky enough to gather or the rare apples or pears from 11, was unheard of in 12. It’s no real shock that Sae has never before seen a banana.

“They should be nice on top of your oats. You should probably use them today or tomorrow before they turn brown. You have to peel them first though, here.” She tosses a lone banana with no small attitude, and I peel it open. Her eyes squint in suspicion as I hand her a piece of the fruit to try.

“Well I’ll be…” she talks with a mouthful of mushed banana. “Those Capitol fools should have sent instructions but luckily I got you. Can you sort out that coffee contraption on the table, too?”

I see what must be a coffee urn of some kind, but at the moment it is simply a heap of shiny silver pieces. My face must show my enthusiasm for the task. “Tea first. Everything is better with a strong cup of tea,” she says, patting me on the cheek affectionately.

I make the tea while Sae slices up bacon to fry. It must have been one of the largest pigs in existence by the number of pieces she’s lined up. Sipping my tea, I settle at the table and begin the trial and error process of putting the urn together. It turns out to be a peaceful task. It’s a problem with a solution. All the right pieces are there and fit together perfectly, they simply need to be matched up correctly. By the time the sizzling of the first batch of bacon is done my mission is complete and I stare at the machine with an odd sense of pride.

“Well done! Extra bananas for you!” Sae cackles from the stovetop. I pull out the container of coffee grounds and hope I’m putting the correct amount in. Erring on the side of too strong seems the safest bet.

By the time we’ve loaded her cart dawn has broken. I’ve pulled the blinds closed in anticipation of whoever comes to pick up the load to bring it down the street.

“I’ll be back once I get this lot set up with breakfast and wake up your lazy neighbor. We can eat together and look at those notes of yours,” Sae tells me as she and Ana rush out the door.

I sit with Buttercup and sip my tea in silence. By listening alone, I can tell the street is growing more alive. It’s all beginning and I don’t know how I feel about it. Not like I can do anything about it anyway so why think about it too much. Adapt. That’s the Everdeen way: adapt or die.

I hear the back door slam open and a high pitch squealing object comes rocketing towards me. In front of me stands tiny little Ana, eyes wild, grinning from ear to ear. In her hand is none other than Haymitch’s knife.

“Get back here you little rat!” I hear Haymitch bellowing from beyond the door.

Ana hands me the knife and hides behind my legs. When I look up, I see Haymitch hair soaked, shoeless, and panting for breath. From behind him, I hear Sae cackling like a madwoman.

“Lose something, sweetheart?” I ask him sarcastically.

“Oh hell no,” he replies at the sight of me. “Not another one. Must I be plagued by these horrible women?”

I hand over his knife. “First I got knobby knees pulling a Katniss and dousing me in cold water. Then that little sneak goes and swipes my knife.”

I nod and try to look sympathetic, but as I pass him I whisper, “Your shirt’s on backwards.” The impressive string of expletives that follows is well worth it.

I put the kettle back on while Sae pulls out the plates from the oven where they have been kept warm. I wave her off and hand her the notebook to read while I carry everything to the table. Haymitch, shirt righted, shuffles into the room and plops next to Sae to read alongside her. “Really, sweetheart, your handwriting’s shit,” Haymitch says, trying to wind me up. I ignore the bait and deliver the plates and mugs to the table. If I stepped on his bare toes as I passed, I really couldn’t say.

After flipping through the pages, Haymitch comments, “Setup seems alright. The Command Team is a good mix of folks and they did an excellent job of telling them to stay the hell away from us. How’d the men look?” Haymitch asks me. I shrug then look to Sae to elaborate since she saw all of them yesterday and this morning.

“They’re nice boys, polite for sure. Most are youngins under 25, but there are a few old dogs mixed in. You can tell everyone’s lost someone, got that look in their eyes. They seem anxious to do some work. Could be for the pay but it made me think more of our Katniss here tearing up that yard,” I nod my head in her accurate analysis. Despite the emotionally trying work, all of them were vibrating with a need to do manual labor. _What was it that my father always said?_

“Idle hands are the… are uh,” I mumble to myself trying to recall the phrase but not succeeding.

“Devil’s playthings,” Sae finishes for me surprised at my reference.

“Haven’t heard that one in long time.” She explains to a confused Haymitch, “Means if you don’t keep yourself busy, you’re likely to get yourself into trouble. It’s a real old saying.” She smiles softly, “Your pa used to tell you that one, right? He would, it was one of your grandma’s favorites. She used it on him all the time. Poor Lander always had some sort of project to work on.”

Later that morning as I make my rounds in the forest, I think about the saying. I’d always just thought about how your idle hands could make trouble. I never really considered how idle hands could make you feel troubled. When things were really bad after my father’s death, yes I didn’t have time to make mischief, but more significantly, I didn’t have time to brood on it all. Yes I mourned our loss and missed him every day, but I didn’t lament in the things I could not change. I had to focus on the things I could do in order to keep the family fed.

During the war, my requests for more dangerous missions or to go through training were probably driven more by my need to not be idle than anything else. At least by doing something I could feel a bit more in control. Especially after Peeta was rescued and the very thought of me would send him into a fit. I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stand the idea of spending weeks watching him like that, unable to make it better, trapped with my own thoughts. I had preferred running miles training to be a soldier than standing by idly desponding.

Wasn’t that part of what my problem was when I returned to 12? After everything that happened, I suddenly was left with a future of nothingness? All that free time and not a thing to fill it with. I didn’t have the rebellion or the safety of my family to fight for. And instead of finding something to fill the idleness, I lost myself to introspection. I let it pull me under. The next thing I knew months had passed me by.

For the first time in my life, I have a choice. What an unfamiliar concept. My basic needs are covered, I have a home, plenty of money, nothing trying to kill me, and no one left relying on me. I don’t _have_ to do anything. I am free to spend the days however I choose, and yet that freedom of choice is almost paralyzing.

The last couple of weeks have been better. I can’t recall doing anything important, but I got up, accomplished _something,_ and then repeated the process the next day.

No wonder Haymitch drinks, it’s his _something_ that he does every day. An unhealthy and unimpressive _something,_ but it’s his routine and one he’s been doing for over twenty-five years. We all can’t be rusted-shut souls self-lubricating with liquor. He doesn’t have anything else. It’s a reality that makes me quite sad for him.

Why is stillness not the same as idleness? Two lessons from my father that would seem diametrically opposed and yet are not. Idleness is like… there is no purpose. It feels hopeless somehow, like giving up. Practicing stillness, however, always feels active, intense. Like hesitating in the midst of the drawing of a bow, it may be frozen mid-movement, but it’s taut, present, and ready to strike.

The sun is reaching high noon when I find my way back to the Village. In the kitchen there are a variety of vegetables roughly chopped. Sae must be around somewhere.

As I begin to unpack the day’s profits, something makes the hair on the back of my neck stand to attention. I pull out my hunting knife, preparing to defend myself when I hear the floorboard creak. My eyes dart to the source of the noise.

From behind the pantry door the freckled face of a young boy peeks out. His light brown eyes are wide as he stares at the knife and then at me. He doesn’t look afraid, mostly shocked. I’m the one who found him in my cupboard. I should be the one who is shocked.

“How did you get in here?” I snap at him, my voice tight.

He licks his lips, but doesn’t try to form words to answer me.

I take a threatening step towards him. “Why are you in my home? Tell me!“ I demand.

Just then, Sae sweeps into the kitchen.

“Ah, Katniss, I see you’ve met young Samson,” she says casually, without a single concern about the scene in front of here. You don’t see a Victor holding a kid in a pantry at knifepoint every day, but Sae has the nerve to be blasé about the whole thing.

 _She’s up to something,_ I think to myself. “Sae,” I say slowly, warningly.

“Oh look at these! Seems like a good day on the snare lines,” Sae comments, ignoring me and instead busying herself with the contents unpacked from my game bag.

I repeat, “Sae.”

“You know, I was thinking that tonight I’d try cooking that big bag of those things you called ‘pasta’ tonight,” she continues to ignore me, serenely going about her meal preparations. “It says on the bag you just boil it in a pot, so really how hard can it –“

“Sae!” I bark trying to get her to stop her chattering. “Why is there a strange child in my pantry?”

I hear a peevish voice grumble, “I’m not strange.”

Sae sighs deeply, “Honestly, child, how should I know? When I left him he was chopping onions – nice work on those, by the way.”

This woman is something else. “Sae, please,” I beg, “explain.”

“Samson, you sit here and get started on opening those tins of beans for me. Miss Katniss and I are going to have a little chat in the other room.” The boy rubs the back of his palms against his pants self-consciously but does as he’s told.

When we get to the hallway I lean in and whisper urgently, “What were you thinking bringing a stranger here? I thought you understood!” A sense of betrayal stabs at my heart.

“Child, calm down. I knew you were going to get all spooked by this. But you need to trust that I wouldn’t risk putting this on you if I didn’t think you could handle it. I’m always on your side. Now, stop panicking and use that pretty little head of yours to ask the right question.”

What does she mean by that? What should I be thinking about? I come home to find a random kid in _my_ home doing chores for – oh.

“Where’d he come from, Sae?” I ask realizing what she meant. My eyebrows furrow, now with a different type of concern for the situation. This district has a gob of workmen and the four of us, that’s it. So where did the kid come from? This district is currently no place for a child.

“There she is,” Sae says brushing my cheek with care, “Lost you for a second. Samson in there is the son of one of the men who joined the crew. Lost his ma in one of the first bombings in 8 and he and his pa have been tryin’ to make end’s meet since then. Tough kid, taught himself how to hunt with a slingshot from memories of that sweet little girl from your Games.” My heart constricts as it always does at the thought of Rue, but I can still be impressed by the kid’s resiliency.

“Now this morning I offered to keep an eye on him. He’ll be helpful to have around and a boy his age needs to stay occupied. Like you said earlier, ‘idle hands’ and all that.”

She knows she’s got me. This is a setup if I’ve ever seen one. I know traps; I should have seen this coming a mile away.

“Sae, I think it’s great, really, but his father couldn’t possibly have said he was okay with his only son spending his days with Katniss Everdeen.”

“Child, it’s no secret where I spend my days cooking. I’m sure he’s not worried in the least.”

I scoff at that and throw my arms in the air in exasperation. “Does everyone forget that I am a ‘hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic’?! They broadcast a doctor’s testimony of that fact across the nation. Broadcast it during my _trial,”_ I say sarcastically. “And what was that trial for again? Oh yeah, shooting the President!” I shout forgetting myself.

From the kitchen doorway I hear, “If you’re talking about that lady from 13, my pop says everyone reckons that if the Mockingjay thought she needed an arrow through her more than Snow, then she probably earned it.”

I groan and press my forehead to the wall.

He can’t seem to stop himself from continuing, “Pops said they had to give you a punishment just like he had to give me a punishment for punching Chadwick in the nose for trying to peek up Sabine’s skirt. Pop had told me he was proud because Chadwick totally deserved it, but he had to pretend to be disappointed because that’s what parents do.”

I can’t help it. I snort at both his story and his blunt matter-of-fact delivery of it. _Damn it_ , I like this kid.

I peek up from the wall and catch Sae’s knowing eyes and cocky smirk. I gently bang my head against the wall. She’s won and she knows it. I barely even put up a fight. I turn my head to look at him.

“Samson, are you sure you feel safe here?” I ask, trying to express to him my own doubt on the matter. Doesn’t he know everyone near me eventually gets hurt? But the boy is unfazed. “By the way you had that knife on me earlier, I think you might be the safest person to be around.”

Sae crows and pinches Samson’s cheek, “Very good point, young Samson. Oh, this should work out just perfectly. You finish openin’ those beans for me?”

“Yes, ma’am. What next?” He asks ready for assignment.

“Why don’t you go and help Katniss in the garden for a bit. Go out and get some sun,” and turns to me adding, “The next train should have a haul of seeds for you. Might have gotten too much, but I was having such a good time spending your money ordering them. Quite a stroke of luck you got an extra pair of hands to help now, isn’t it?” Her smirk is undeniable and her dark eyes are filled with mirth.

Out in the yard Samson’s eyes grow wide at the massive plot of land. No doubt he thought it would be a manageable row or maybe a couple pots and a planter box.

“It’s a lot I know,” I mumble self-consciously.

“What happened? And why’s it so big?” He wonders, still flabbergasted by the house-sized garden.

I pause, unsure of how I want to answer that question. Should I come up with some reasonable and vague answer or tell the truth. I know what I would have preferred at his age. I could always tell when someone was sugarcoating something to avoid unpleasantries or placating me while sidestepping the question. I always preferred my father’s curiously honest answers. This kid has already seen the ugliness of this world; I don’t think I need to insult him.

I realize he’s been waiting for an answer in silence for a while now. “You ever feel so angry you wanted to pound your fists into the ground until it… I don’t know, until it made the entire world shake?”

His eyes jump down to the floor and a quick flash of something like guilt colors his face. Samson finally looks up out at the yard again with more thought this time, then gives a nearly inaudible, “Yeah.”

Of course he has. He’s got to be barely Reaping age and he’s lost his mother, probably his friends, his district’s been destroyed, he’s felt the pains of starvation, and had to say goodbye to everything that was familiar to start over in this haunted district. It’s a story I’m well acquainted with. He’s so young but already has so much fuel from life’s injustices that it could light up into unimaginable rage with only the tiniest of sparks.

“I figured you would,” I reply just as softly. “One day, it was just too much. Felt like my only options were to give in and tear the world apart or to focus that anger instead on ripping this entire garden apart with my bare hands.” I bump him with my elbow. “I figured I’d cause much less trouble if I stuck to my own yard.”

“So you kept digging until you didn’t feel angry anymore?” He asks, as if he doesn’t quite believe that’s the case.

I chuckle, “No, just until I felt like the anger wasn’t in control anymore. Truth is I think there will always be some anger in me, like a tick deeply embedded in my skin. There are some things that don’t ever go away.”

“So you won’t ever be happy again?” His concern is more than one for me. He’s got his own battles rumbling beneath the surface.

“Well that’s a different thing. I don’t think one snuffs out the other. Sometimes I’ve got so many emotions- anger, sadness, gratitude, longing, hopelessness, confusion - all of them churning up inside. Other times the feelings fade in and out, one or another drifting into the background.”

I sit down on the porch step and look out to the garden. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I need to tell him more, help him understand.

“When I was a little girl,” I pause, remembering the day, “my pa wanted to surprise my mother by having him and me make her a garden – a very small one using an old shipping crate he’d found at the Hob, our trading post.” I reach out my hand to run my fingers through the dirt and grind its coarseness into my fist. “My father told me that life was like a garden. First you have to have good soil, or else nothing will grow and all you’ll have is a box of dust. But even if you have your good soil, just because you can grow the prettiest flowers or the best vegetables doesn’t mean you’re never going to get a few bugs or weeds in there too. I remember my pa, he said, “A real garden will always have both. It’s all about taking care that the bad stuff doesn’t overtake the good stuff. It’s about finding harmony.’”

My father would know what to say to help Samson. He always knew just what to say, even if at first you wondered where he was going as his story wandered about. He could look at someone and connect to them person-to-person, as if they were the most important individual in Panem. I wish I had more of that in me, but my distrust of others and dislike of attention holds me back. I bottled the little I possessed and saved it just for Prim. But every so often I can feel him working in me, usually with those that need protection or are outsiders. I think of how I could connect with some of the children or sickly folks in 12. I always felt a pull to people like Madge, Rue, Mags, Wiress, and Beetee and eventually even Finn, Jo, and my prep team once I saw who they really were. Outsiders. A little bit of Pa would slip through my armor and for once I’d know just what to say. I’d like to do that with Samson, but I might still be too broken.

I sit in silence and wait to see what he does. Mostly I wait because I don’t know what to say. I’ve definitely overspent my word count for the day. Silence is an okay activity in my book.

After a couple minutes, he joins me on the step.

“So it’s okay that I still feel this way?” He asks, refusing to look at me, eyes remaining on the dirt.

“Like what?” I ask in return, wanting him to say it out loud. I never got to do that when I was… well really ever. I never got to put words to how I felt. Whether it was because I didn’t think I could afford the luxury of such self-expression or I felt like I didn’t have anyone who’d listen, I kept it locked up tight where it festered like mold in a basement.

“Mad. So mad,” his voice shakes and then crumbles, “And, and sad. Really sad all the time.” A tear slips out of his eye and he rushes to wipe it away before I might notice, trying to hide his face.

“Hey now, if we’re going to be stuck with each other, you’ll see plenty of tears from me too. You don’t need to hide yours. I think you and I have plenty of reasons that justify a little sadness.”

He sniffs out a soggy laugh.

Hoping to distract him from his melancholy and me from mine, I stand up, brushing my hands on my pants. “Alright then - how do you feel about getting your hands dirty?”


	13. CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIII

Samson and I work in the garden the rest of that afternoon as well as the following two. It isn’t really discussed; he just comes out and joins me after he wraps up with Sae. After checking and resetting the snares in the morning, I begin gathering more of the local herbs and vegetables to bring to him to help me transplant them into the garden. By the third afternoon the row of local plant life has expanded to include ramps, burdock, bittercress, borage, and nettles.

While we work, I tell him a little about growing up in 12 and the basics of foraging for food. He tells me about his life in 8 and what it was like living in a tent with his father once the war got bad. He never asks me about the Games or the war and I never ask him about the bombing or his mother’s death. I do convince him to tell me about his mother, the good memories. He tells me about how she was a terrible cook, but was brilliant at needlepoint. He shows me the handkerchief she stitched his initials into, the one piece of her work that survived the bombing.

I start calling him Sam, and he starts calling me Kat. It’s an allowance that I don’t think either of us would permit to anyone else, but after my challenging eyebrow was met with his own challenging one the first time the names were used, it seems to now be some bizarre special exemption.

He confesses that he felt grateful when they read the card for the Quarter Quell. It was supposed to be his first Reaping, and he felt so lucky that his name wouldn’t be in the boy’s ball this time. His face was so filled with guilt; it was as if he felt he was to blame for all that happened afterwards. I spent several minutes explaining to him why every single one of the Victors that were sent to the Quell would not have thought it would be better if he were in their place. That may have been a lie; some of the Careers probably wouldn’t have cared, but might as well give them the benefit of the doubt.

I ask him about Woof and Cecilia, but he didn’t know either. The population of 12 was so much smaller than the other Districts, even before the Capitol dropped their bombs. District 8 was far too large to know everyone the way you could in 12. He had heard that Cecilia’s children had found a way to run off and hide after she died in the bloodbath. That knowledge does make it a little bit better though I’ll never forget the sight of her three little ones clinging to her and begging her not to go. To force my mind away from darker thoughts, I tell him about Woof and his odd attempts to eat poisonous bugs.

Working in the garden seems good for Samson. During the Victory Tour, 8 was one of the most oppressive districts. It stunk from fumes and factory waste. I couldn’t catch sight of any trees or hints of nature, just bricks and smog and miserable exhausted faces with achy hands. Samson looks at the garden with fascination, the way any child likely would growing up in the concrete environment he was forced into. He tells me about how much he dreaded his required shifts in the factory and how even though he was so scared when they bombed them, part of him took joy in watching the awful buildings crumble.

I tell him how much the mines always scared me. How I, even still, dream about them, imagining how my father died. I tell him how much I hated that it was the only future available for us in the Seam. That we knew the mines would eventually be the cause of maiming, sickness, and death for all of my community. He tells me the textile factories were the same. Countless lives, all disposable to the Capitol. Two very different Districts, but the more you think about it, similar in all of the ways that count most. Similar in the way that, to the Capitol, we didn’t count at all.

In the evenings, I continue my nightly investigations. The crews have been slowly making their way through the district and each night look more and more weary. The Meadow is now nothing but a massive crater and it is estimated that at least two thousand bodies have been buried so far. The team leaders had hoped they would be complete by the end of the week, but it looks like it may be an additional couple of days mostly for the sake of the crew’s mental health.

Come Saturday, I wake early, exhausted, and tangled in a mess of sweat-dampened sheets. My throat aches from what must have been screaming. I never know if my shouting is in my nightmares or if it overflows into real life, but by the hoarseness I am feeling, I’m afraid it is likely the latter today. The day is off to a rough start and I’m certain it’s only going to get rougher.

The supply train is arriving this morning and with it Sae’s order for the garden. That’s not what I’m dreading though. Last night, I overheard that the crew will be sending some people for a delivery pickup as well. For the first time, I’ll be without a way to hide or avoid the rest of the world outside of my small circle of trust. Sae doesn’t have the strength to push the cart and Haymitch is generally useless.

I take a long shower hoping it might make me feel a little more at ease. I find one of my coziest sweaters and toss my father’s hunting jacket on top - my own clothing based defense. In the earliest hours of the morning, I check and reset the lines just to while away the hours. Even still, I return home before Sae is due to begin breakfast and find myself in the rocking chair draining several cups of tea with Buttercup curled up on my lap.

I drift through breakfast distractedly. Sae watches me carefully, aware of what is unsettling me but giving me the space to work through it. I know I shouldn’t be thrown by doing something so mundane but it’s like my body has been trained to respond this way. In general, I never liked being around people outside of the select few I trusted: Prim, Gale, Madge. I never wanted to be noticed because with my life, nothing good would ever come from attention. With my hunting habits, staying unnoticed and disconnected from others was a part of survival.

Now, I can’t go anywhere without being noticed. Being a Victor, the Mockingjay, and a presidential assassin has made me universally recognizable. Granted, without a prep team, I appear much rougher, but there’s really no mistaking me, especially in 12. And I never know if other people will hate me or want to thank me. Honestly, I’m much more comfortable with them hating me. I don’t know what to with gratitude or affection.

As Sae heads out for the morning breakfast drop, she stops to brush a wisp of hair out of my face. “You’ll be fine, child. You’ve made it through much worse than this.” She steps back and the corner of her lip curls up. “You can always pull a runner if it’s too much. Heaven knows none of those boys have any hope of ever catching you.” She laughs at her own joke as she closes the door behind her.

She’s right, of course. My turmoil is an overreaction; I recognize that. It’ll just be a few people, no crowds or cameras. I know I’ll be fine, but perhaps a bit like a petulant child, I just don’t want to. I want to stay in my home. I want to stay where I am in control.

Chipper knocking comes from the front door. Sam is there, cheeks pink and chest heaving from what must have been his run from the breakfast area. He kicks at a non-existent pebble and shoves his hands into his pockets bashfully. “Hey Kat, I uh, well Miss Sae might have mentioned that you’d be going on a trip to the train delivery today, and I thought, well, um, I thought you’d might like some company.”

I try and hold back the smile that wants to sneak onto my face but am unsuccessful at the task. Luckily he’s still keeping his eyes locked on the ground. In only just a few days he’s gotten rather protective of me. A thought that is sweet though completely ridiculous. But I know what it’s like when you let someone get close to you after locking everyone else out. It’s a strong bond.

“I guess I could use the help,” I say, straightening my face, “ but, Sam, did you need to run over so fast? You look completely windswept,” I tell him, shaking my hand through his messy locks.

His hands jump to his head, attempting to smoothen the chaos. “I didn’t want you leaving without me,” he scoffs as if it should be obvious.

We pull out the smaller cart while I wait until I know the men have left for their shifts. If they’re all gone out of the Village, then we will only risk crossing paths with one Sector Team. With the cart, I can’t cut through the woods as I did with Ana, so we’ll have to go through the western edge of town. Fantastic. Not only having to socialize and possibly causing a scene for one of the work crews, but having to again face the shambles of my district in the harsh light of day.

I’m silent as we walk down the main street of Victors Village. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam glances over at me every five seconds or so. Finally I break the silence, knowing he may never try. “Why’d you really come this morning?” I ask without introduction. I know there’s more to the story. Of course, I’m grateful for another pair of hands, but his intensity about accompanying me is tell enough. Sam sighs, disappointed that his ruse is up.

“It’s just… I notice things, you know?” He shrugs self-consciously. “I’d have to be pretty dumb to not notice that you don’t ever go anywhere but your house and the woods. The idea of other people near you makes you reach for the nearest knife.” He teases at the end, recalling how we first met. “I figured if I came with you it might not be so bad. When my day has been bad, spending it with you in the garden somehow makes it better.”

His cheeks slightly color before he shakes it off and nudges me in the arm. “I know I’m still pretty small but I’m kinda’ strong and I can be real good at talking to all the people you don’t want to talk to.”

Touched, I squeeze his arm with affection. “Thank you, Sam. I’m glad it was you I found hiding in my pantry and not some sneaky raccoon.”

“Kaaat, I’ve told you a million times, I wasn’t hiding!” He whines defensively.

“Sure, sure, that’s what they all say,” I laugh back at him as he tries to wiggle out of my grasp.

My laughter quickly dies in my throat as the road bends and the perimeter of the wreckage takes shape in the distance. Dust hangs in the air around the broken stones like fog. My mind pulls me to the poisoned fog in the Quell and my entire body jerks backwards. I lose my hold of the cart and Sam bolts over to try and figure out what happened to me. I’m not sure what he sees in my face. Is it the terror of the Games or the heartbreak of seeing all that’s left of my home? Either way, he follows my gaze and understands enough.

“Let’s go this way Kat. I think we’ll pass by one of the crews, but my dad showed me on his map which areas have almost been cleaned up. Should be better that way.” I’m past the point of arguing and let Samson grab the handle of the cart to lead the way.

The banging and clanking of rocks and shovels and unidentifiable building remnants begin to grow. The air thickens, but doesn’t curl like fog as it did in the other direction. It hovers heavily, like the air always hung in dense foreboding clouds around the mines. In the distance, the men seem focused on their work. A substantial piece of foundation is drawing the crew’s full attention and they haven’t taken notice of us intruding on their site.

Looking around, I try and get my bearings. Sam was right; they have made a lot of progress here. On one side of the expanse the ground looks nearly clear, all of the large remnants relocated to a massive pile towards the west side. With a little more effort and some heavy machinery, you might someday look around and never know what horror happened here.

Nearing the waste pile, I see a chunk of pale marble and it finally hits me. I turn around, with eyes now aware of where I’m standing. This is all that’s left of the Justice Building.

Perhaps the most ironically named building in the District, the Justice Building never brought the citizens of 12 anything remotely resembling justice. Seeing that oppressive monolith reduced to nothing but rubble doesn’t hurt me in the least. I can’t help but even feel pleasure at grinding the white Capitol marble under my boot the same way I’d pulverize the petals of one of Snow’s roses with satisfaction.

This is the place they offered me a cheap medal in exchange for my father’s life. This is the place where I had to grovel on the 8th of every month to get tessarae in exchange for a higher likelihood of being sent into the Games. This is the place where my sweet Prim, so innocent from the world’s cruelty, had her name pulled from those cursed Reaping balls in her very first year. This is where I was taken into custody not once but twice to be sent into the horror of the Games.

The fact that soon all evidence of this structure’s existence will soon be wiped from the face of the earth makes my chest swell. I may regret a lot of things, but this isn’t one. I glance across the pile of rubble looking for the gnarled up metal that I distinctly remember from my first visit to 12 after the bombing. The sight sent me into a panic then, too much of a reminder of Peeta and the torture the Capitol was putting him through. But now? Now I want to see it. I want to see what remains of Thread and Snow’s regime. Their gallows, there to frighten the district into submission and quiet the whispers of rebellion, are now nothing but distorted metal.

I run my hand along the twisted metal. Would Gale have been left to hang here next to that turkey if I hadn’t interrupted the scene at the whipping post? Would I have been left to hang if I hadn’t somehow become a “darling” of the Capitol? Hung in the square simply for trying to keep our families fed. I’d like to believe that this will be the final one of these to ever be placed in 12; that the new government will never stoop to the malice of the last. I have to believe the new 12 built in the dust of the old one will be one that is safer. It will be… I don’t know, just better than what we were always told was all we could hope for.

I have to believe that. Or else… or else, what the hell was the point?

I suddenly realize that everything around me has gone quiet. The thunder of activity that once filled the former square is gone and silence lingers on the breeze. _Shit._ I drop my hand from the former gallows and straighten my spine. _Well done, Katniss, way to cause a scene._ I lift my eyes to see eight men, covered in sweat and grime, staring at me. I feel like a creature on display. C _ome see the Mockingjay as she wanders through the rubble like a madwoman._

I feel a small hand hesitantly touch my wrist. “You ok, Kat?”

I nod and softly mumble, “Let’s get out of here.”

I feel eyes burning into my back as I about-face away from the crowd and back to the cart. Who knows what’s going through their heads, but I know I need to get somewhere where there are less eyes on me. I’m too exposed, vulnerable. Time to move to higher ground.

As we make our escape, I hear the sounds of work restarting. Sam stays at my side but doesn’t say anything. I know he’s got questions but is too timid or polite to ask. Finally, I say without detail, “That was once our Justice Building.”

He furrows his brows and bobs his head in thought. After a minute or so he asks, “What was that metal stuff for?”

“Hangings.”

He pales and we continue to walk in silence. I wonder if 8 had its own town square with stocks and gallows. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sam had seen the consequences of disobeying the Capitol first hand.

“You were glad it was all gone.” It’s not a question. He knows that I was.

Finally, we arrive at the tracks and the temporary platform. While waiting I ask Sam where he thinks he and his dad will go next after his work contract is up. If I remember correctly, they should be finished and departing on the train in only a few more days.

“Hopefully nowhere,” he answers and I turn my head in further question. “My dad and some other guys want to stay. He’s been talking to the people in charge. A couple of the men want work more, but there’s six of us that are serious about staying in 12 permanently.”

I can’t say the thought of Sam sticking around doesn’t bring a little relief. I’ve already grown attached. Isn’t that pathetic? But my small circle of Sae, Haymich, and Anabel has increased to four and I don’t like the idea of it shrinking again.

“Dad says I’ve seemed more like myself since we moved here. Don’t really know how I was ever not myself. I’ve always been me. But I do like it here. I like how I can see the sky, and the air doesn’t smell. Everything doesn’t remind me of Mum and, well, I like the people here.”

I don’t think I ever was so open when I was his age and definitely would have been more wary about spending time with someone like me. It took me over a year to no longer be tempted to kick Gale in the shins every time I saw him in the woods. Sam and I may be kindred spirits, but sometimes his kindness and sincerity screams of Peeta.

I give him a playful jab on the arm and tell him, “I’m glad you’ll be able to stay.”

The whizzing sound of the train begins to grow, warning us of its impending arrival. From a curve in the road, two people arrive with a cart of their own, but by the look of their coloring, I’m relieved. The Seam features of Thom and Colton are familiar enough to keep me from any major panic. Yes my anxiety has spiked and I feel awkward already, but I know them. They’re not threats, they’re my neighbors.

Thom pulls off his hat and waves as he approaches. “Hello there, Katniss,” he greets warmly. Colton, following behind, cheerfully shouts, “Good Morning, Miss Everdeen!”

Thom rolls his eyes at his over-enthusiasm and I hear Sam next to me snickering.

“Hello Thom, Colton. And please, just Katniss.”

Colton’s face brightens as if he was just given a gift. Uncomfortable, I deflect, “You know Samson?”

“You bet we do,” Colton replies with a broad smile and a strong pat to Sam’s back. “Is this where you ran off to this morning? Thought there might be a fire somewhere,” he chuckles, “should have known it was a pretty girl instead.”

Sam is clearly not as amused, and huffs in annoyance. Thom steps in with a bit more maturity, “Glad you could lend a hand to our Katniss. Sae seemed to talk as if she was expecting a big delivery.”

I nod but don’t answer as the train slows into the makeshift station. A young man effortlessly leaps out of one of the middle cars while the train is in still in motion. As he nears I realize it’s the same gentleman from my last visit. Micah, I recall after rapidly searching my memory for the name.

His gracefulness seems to stop at the sight of me. His stride loses its rhythm before he turns it into a jog. I’ve got to find a way to stop scaring the poor man.

“Hello Micah,” I greet quietly.

He glows. “Miss Everdeen, it’s awfully nice to see you again! Must say, missed you the last couple of deliveries!”

That enthusiasm confuses me. What an odd sentiment. Why would he miss me? He pulls out his tablet and taps away at the screen, “So it looks like you got a big haul this time.” With a dramatic flourish of his arm, “It’s in the next car down. I’ll lead the way, madam.”

He ignores Thom and Colton completely as he escorts me to the correct car. Sam snorts loudly at my shoulder and even I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from turning upwards.

I try to shake off my smirk, “Micah, this is Samson. He’ll be helping me today.”

Micah shoots out his hand to shake little Sam’s with gusto. “Good man! We know Miss Everdeen can handle herself but it’s nice to know she’s got a gent like you to keep the less reputable fellows out of her hair.” His eyes glance over to Thom and Colton and then winks at Sam in some sort of male understanding. “Now let’s see… 63, 64, here we are.”

As the door to the train slides open, a wall of crates and seedlings greets me.

_Oh, come on, Sae, am I starting my own farm?_

“Whoaaaa,” I hear Sam say in awe. “Miss Sae really outdid herself. Look at all this stuff!”

I go back to wheel over the cart while the two boys start unloading. There are three mystery crates, seven trays of seedlings, and one large pungent sack that I reckon is filled with fertilizer.

“You look like you’re going to have a very impressive garden, Miss Everdeen,” Micah comments as he places the last crate in the cart.

“Just Katniss, please. And yeah, it looks that way,” to which Sam excitedly adds, “Yeah, Kat! We’re gonna be so busy!”

As we return to the main platform, Micah pulls out his tablet again and looks at Thom and Colton with undisguised distaste. He squints his eyes in scrutiny at Colton, “Should I assume you two are here for a pickup and not just to bother Miss Everdeen and her young companion?”

Thom chuffs out a low chuckle, “No aims to bother Katniss, sir. We’re here for a Renovo Unit pickup. You should have some Class A paperwork we need to sign for-“ but is cut off by Colton. “And just who exactly are you, mister fancy train man?”

Someone please save me from all of the masculinity. Sam looks thrilled as he watches the two alpha males start to quibble back and forth. About what, I couldn’t say, as I’ve grabbed the handles to the cart and started to walk away from the ridiculous display. I give Thom a silent nod goodbye as I head off.

His laughter seems to snap the two men out of their back-and-forth. I hear two overlapping voices shout at my back, “Wait, where are you going?” and “Don’t go yet!”

 _So close._ I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose and sigh as I turn around. Crossing my arms, I raise an eyebrow in question, waiting to hear what I’ve stopped for. Both men don’t seem to have thought that far ahead by the looks of it.

“Oh!” Micah comes up with something first. “I’ve got some letters for you, too!” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small bundle. I tuck the letters into my jacket.

“Thank you,” I say with the best attempt at a smile I can muster.

“It’s always a pleasure, Miss Katniss-“ he begins to reply before being cut off by Colton escorting him to the train car, “Okay buddy, back to the train with you.”

“Here, let me take your cart before Colt gets back and tries to flex his muscles for you,” Thom offers as he grabs the handles. “I should apologize for him, but I figure you understand. He’s always been a flirt and you are literally the only young woman for thousands of miles.” I glance up to him and roll my eyes.

“So you’re gardening?” he asks conversationally. I hum a confirmation, then gesturing to the full cart, “and it appears Sae is overly supportive of the efforts.”

Thom and Sam chuckle at that. “Is it me or has old Greasy Sae gotten pushier since the war? She’s always a force, but now she’s got all these workers looking at her like she’s their General.”

“That’s the best thing they could do. She’d skewer anyone that crossed her,” I agree.

The quick sound of boots running nears us. “Geeze, you all are quick. Just gonna leave me behind, huh?”

Sam smirks deviously, “We thought you might like some private time with your new friend.”

“Ugh, that guy. I had to wait years while Gale played protector, I’m not going to let some glorified mail man do the same.”

Like always, I flinch when I hear Gale’s name mentioned, but Colton doesn’t seem to have noticed. Can’t say the same for the other two but they don’t call me out on it. Trying to shove it off and change the subject I ask, “How are the crews?”

Thom takes over. “Doing really well, but the first few days were rough. We weren’t sure anybody would make through the week. By next week we’ll be ready for a shipment of demolition machinery and some new crews. That grabs Sam’s attention, “New crews?”

Colton slaps his shoulder in a brotherly fashion. “Nothing to worry about little man. We can’t let Katniss’ new assistant leave town so soon. We like the local game she keeps slipping into Sae’s dinners too much to risk disappointing her.” Sam brightens with that promise. I hope Colton isn’t just playing around, it means too much to Sam.

“You been showing the lad all your hunting tricks?”

The question takes me aback. The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind. Should it have? I took Rory out several times after the first Games. It was foolish to leave him without some basic knowledge of how to provide for his family should something happen to his older brother. Shouldn’t I feel similarly with Samson?

I sidestep that line of thought. “I go before dawn. No kid wants to sign up for that.”

We part ways but Thom hesitates for a moment. “Let us know if you need anything, okay? We folks from 12 don’t have much left but each other.”

I squeeze his forearm, my new go-to gesture of awkward gratitude, and tell him honestly, “I’m glad we’ve got you here protecting our home.”

Sam and I return to the house and unload the cart. The bag is indeed some rank fertilizer that sends Sam running. The trays are all small seedling starts. These must be the ones that are harder to grow from seed or take too long. There are labeled sticks poking out each transplant. Some are labeled for familiar items like broccoli, cauliflower, or cabbage but others are unfamiliar words like chard, leeks, or brussel sprouts.

We discover two of the three large crates are thankfully for Sae and not the garden. The third is filled with a variety of seed packets. Fresh fine herbs like lemon balm, basil, and coriander is something never seen around these parts. There’s even an envelope of dill seeds, sending an ache in my chest at the memory. There are also some seeds for fancy greens like spinach, kale, and lettuces I’d only seen in the Capitol alongside all the standards like peas, onions, and root vegetables. Sae must have decided this was her guaranteed way to keep me from slipping away again while letting her go on her own culinary adventure.

We both collapse on the porch steps once finished. “Kat, are we really gonna grow all this stuff?”

“No clue. I’m way over my head. This is Sae’s doing, so I’m counting on her having something to share.”

He turns his head to look at the stack of seeds and starts, “I’ve never seen so much food outside of a can in my life.” I nod, understanding the shock. This new world we now live in is jarring. Decades of fighting for a single tin of tasteless food and now it’s all freshly delivered effortlessly en mass. It’s too easy, like one day we’ll wake up and it will have all been a dream.

“If I woke up early enough would you ever show me the woods,” Samson asks shyly.

He must have been thinking about that since Colton asked the question earlier. Instead of answering, I counter with my own question. “Why do you want to me to?”

He pauses and tilts his head to gaze up at the ceiling of the porch. “Lots of reasons I guess,” he starts slowly. “When we ran from 8 we made camp in a forest outside the district. I’d never seen one, and even though it’s not as nice as yours here, I liked climbing the trees. It was always so quiet.”

“Is that when you taught yourself to use a slingshot?”

His face lights up, “Yeah, once I worked out how to make it I spent weeks figuring out how to aim. When I hit my first bird, gosh, it was amazing. We hadn’t had much meat for probably two weeks. And my dad, he was so proud of me. I couldn’t wait to go out again the next day.” I hear him mumble, “Miss that.”

There are very few things as satisfying as bringing home something you’ve caught with your own two hands. And bringing it home to aching bellies, seeing the tears of relief and the moans of delight from the meal you’ve provided, it is life affirming.

“I don’t want you waking up at dawn-“, “oh,” he interrupts with disappointment tinting his voice.

“Hush,” I admonish. “I’ll take you out with me but there are two things. I don’t want you getting up that early. We’ll go when you come over at your usual time.” I’ll keep to my usual routine as I know my dreams will continue to wake me early no matter what and I'll need that solitude. But, I can keep some portion of my tasks for later when I can bring Sam along. Covering the amount of land I typically do would be too much for him right now anyways.

“The other thing is I need your father to give Sae direct permission for you to go out in the woods with me. The forest can be dangerous. I’ll have to teach you how to use a knife in case we cross paths with anything aggressive. I’m serious about this. You and your father have to talk all this through and he has to let Sae know what is and isn’t okay. Fair?”

He bolts up from his reclined position. “Really? I mean, yes! Yes! That’s fair.”

I hear Sae’s heavy footsteps approaching. “Anyone back here?” Her voice shouts as she turns the corner to the back yard. “Oh my! Now that is one mighty large haul!” She exclaims at the sight of the delivered items.

“Miss Sae, did you mean to order all this stuff?” Samson asks the older woman.

“Oh, how should I know? I was having a spree thinking of all the piles of dirt Katniss had here waiting and all the vegetables I’ve never gotten to cook with. Girly here doesn’t spend any of her money so I figured someone should make use of it. This’ll be fun! Come May we’ll have to put in another order for the summer season.” Sae seems to de-age decades in her delight. She’s like a young girl anxious for a taste of a new treat. It’s the maple syrup all over again.

“So you’ve got a plan?” I ask, trying to pull her back to reality and away from her recipe based fantasies.

“What kind of plan do you need?” she ribs, “You plant a seed, it grows, we eat it. What else is there to it?”

I roll my eyes openly at her aloofness. “Sae, you know it’s not that simple.”

“Bah,” she blurts out as she heads through the back door, “I’m not a bit worried. You’ll figure it out.”

I look at Sam to confirm that I’m not the insane one here. By the look on his face we at least are in this boat together. We follow her through to the kitchen and she directs us to the table for lunch.

“How’d the trip to the station go?” She asks as she places down a sandwich in front of each of us. “Fine,” I answer.

Sam’s eyes twinkle from behind his sandwich. “Oh, I don’t know Miss Sae. Kat here had the delivery man and one of the crew heads fighting for her attention. It was like they’d never seen a girl before.” He giggles out the last sentence, clearly failing to keep the straight face he was aiming for. I take a piece of fallen crust and flick it at his head. Snitch.

“I’d put money on it being Colton. Boy never could focus if there was a girl in the room,” Sae comments, shaking her head like his mother would have.

Sam begins describing our day and summarizing the contents of the delivery. He then excitedly explains what I told him about going into the woods. I’m positive he is overestimating how much he’ll enjoy it, but there’s no hope at explaining that to him now. Sae looks at me with real regard and agrees to be the go-between.

“Any letters for me?” Sae asks as we’re cleaning up the plates.

My hand jumps to my jacket pocket that Is no longer there. “Hold on,” I respond as I cross to where my father’s large jacket hangs. In the right side pocket I retrieve the handful of slightly crumpled letters and hand them over to Sae. She flips through the envelopes, “Ah, this one’s for you, Katniss.”

My head whips around to the letter in her outstretched hand.

On it is the neat cursive of my name in a familiar script that sets my heart pounding.

 _Peeta_.


	14. CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XIV

“Kat,” a voice echoes distantly. “Kat, you okay?”

The haziness seems to fade and I feel Samson’s hand on my arms.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, unsure of the question.

Sae is unruffled, but my behavior clearly worries Sam. “Sae handed you that letter and you just froze.”

Oh, the letter- _Peeta’s letter._

“It’s nothing. Just surprised me is all.” He looks doubtful. “I’m okay I promise.”

In my other hand I tighten my grip on the envelope. _I’m fine, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about._ Deep breaths in, I remind my body as I exit towards the yard and settle on the porch swing.

A few minutes later Sam joins me. My fingertips brush over the textured paper mindlessly. Sam doesn’t ask but we both know the question he’s too polite to ask. Finally, I break the silence.

“It’s from Peeta.”

“Your husband?”

“Huh?” I respond eloquently then it hits me.

The proposal, the announcement, the dresses; it’s all like another lifetime ago. The fact that things were less complicated then is insanity. With a small snort, “Yes and no.”

He tilts his head in bewilderment, so I clarify, “Yes, it’s who you think it is, but we never were actually married. No baby either.”

I look out at the unfinished garden to prevent seeing whatever his reaction is. My goal was to never talk about any of this stuff. But with the Games and the war supposedly over, I don’t want to live a lie anymore. There’s no sword hanging over our heads or threats aimed at our families. Life is too much of a struggle to play pretend.

“That’s kind of a relief. The idea of you with a baby is pretty crazy.” The fact that this is where his mind first went, cements my appreciation for him. A laugh barks out, “I couldn’t agree more.”

“So why the fake life?” Sam asks, without any accusation in his tone.

I sigh. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Why? I take a moment to find the right words.

“Even when you win the Games, you’re never really safe and you definitely aren’t free.”

_How do I explain this to a kid?_

“We belonged to the Capitol and the Capitol wanted a grand love story. And those always end in a big wedding. The baby, well that one was all Peeta. I had nothing to do with it. He wanted a way to further protect me in the Quell. It had the added benefit of sending the Capitolites into utter pandemonium at the thought of me being sent into the arena with child. Apparently, to those people, 12 year olds were fair game but a fetus was worthy of protests in the streets.”

“And you didn’t know he was going to do that?” Sam asks.

“Nope, I found out I was pregnant at the same moment the rest of Panem did.”

He huffs a bit through his freckled nose. “Pretty brilliant plan. Sneaky.” I smile softly at his recognition. “Yeah, he had a talent for that. I’m more of a blunt instrument.”

The comment brings out a cascade of laughter from Sam. Perhaps that was a little too true.

“So why isn’t he here now?” He asks.

I wonder how much he knows about what happened after the Quell. “Did you see any of the broadcasts once the war started?” “Some,” he replies, “but the ones I didn’t see I heard about. He did some with Caesar, right?”

I nod, “Yes, but not willingly.” I elaborate as I close my eyes and run my nails through my scalp, “When I blew up the arena, 13 only rescued me, Finn, and Beetee. Peeta and the others were captured by the Capitol.”

I wrap my arms around myself tightly. “Snow,” I pause as I try to find the right words. “Snow was a monster. A sick and vicious monster. Simple violence wasn’t enough for him, so they started experimenting with Peeta’s mind.”

“But I saw him in some of the videos. He seemed ok,” Sam says, perplexed.

“Haven’t I proven to you that you can’t always trust a broadcast?” I ask rhetorically. “After his treatment in the Capitol, he wasn’t the same Peeta anymore and he saw me more as a threat than a… whatever we were to each other.” I take a deep breath in. “I think he’s now somewhere with doctors trying to treat him. With the current state of 12, this wouldn’t be a good place for him to be. His entire family died in the bombing.”

We swing in silence for a minute or two. Sam nudges my elbow with his own. “So why are you so worried about the letter?”

_I don’t know_ , I think to myself. No reason and yet a million ones. He doesn’t need to know that so I conjure a generic reason. “I don’t have a good track record for letters. They mostly bring bad news.”

I look at his little face and see sympathy shining forth. A change of topic is needed. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. “How about we tackle that rancid smelling bag of fertilizer today so we can get it over with?” I propose as I shove the letter in my pocket and clap my hands together.

Sam scrunches up his nose but seems to be up for it. “Maybe it won’t stink so much when it’s mixed in with the dirt instead of in one big bag.”

* * *

I make it through the afternoon by pushing all thoughts of the letter to the farthest recesses of my mind. But now, in the quiet of my empty house, I can’t seem to avoid it any longer. Curled up in my bed, I pull out the envelope, now a bit worse for wear, and attempt to smooth it back into shape.

The writing on the front is smooth, but it is evident by the indentations the letters of my name it was written in a heavy precision. My finger finds the corner flap of the envelope and nimbly slides across its length. Like ripping off a bandage, I unfold its contents.

> Dear Katniss,
> 
> To say I was shocked to get a letter from you would definitely be an understatement. My mind is still muddled sometimes, so it took me a couple of days to decide whether it was real or not. It added a bit of humor once I actually got the nerve to begin reading and saw your admission of never writing a letter before. Some part of me remembered that a letter from you would be improbable, but apparently not impossible.
> 
> I’ve spent the last months in a facility located on the outskirts of the Capitol. Dr. Aurelius and his colleagues recovered some banned medical books from before the first war and are trying to use them to help some of the highest trauma survivors. Most of us are what the doctors call ‘Prisoners of War’ but there are others too. It is both horrifying and comforting to know that I’m not the only one.
> 
> I’m not sure how I’m really doing but I know I’m better than I was before. Dr. A says they call it _practicing_ medicine for a reason, a joke that never ceases to amuse him. I know I don’t feel the constant rage anymore so I consider that a victory. I was so scared I’d hurt someone again. I still have what doctors call ‘episodes’, which are brought on by things they call ‘triggers’. Really it just means that something might remind me of a bad memory, real or not real, and I freak. I think that’s why I’m kept away from the rest of the patients or maybe they’re trying to keep my identity confidential. Even the first two weeks, when Annie and Jo were still here, we never any press show up.
> 
> Annie left for 4, deciding that being near the sea would be better for her. Jo left without doctor approval. She simply punched her doctor in the throat and stormed out. No one was about to stop her after that. Things are much calmer since they left, but I do miss the company. I worry that I am left alone with my thoughts too much. The days pass slowly and I feel like I’m neither living nor dying, just waiting. Perhaps it’s the same for you.
> 
> I am so sorry about your sister. I miss her all the time and I only cared a fraction of the infinite amount you did. I didn’t understand what had happened until you were taken into custody and Haymitch came to see me. Before then, I was still so confused and angry. First because of the way you voted for the Games, and then shooting Coin instead of Snow, and then trying to take the nightlock pill. I had finally thought I was starting to understand the real you and then everything seemed to conflict and I didn’t know what to trust.
> 
> You always could sense a threat better than anyone. They’ve had me re-watch the unedited footage of both of our Games a lot while I’ve been here, and it’s clearer than ever that’d I’d have never survived it without you. I was so focused on there being another Hunger Games that I never heard the threat in Coin’s comments that day. But Haymitch did and he was sure you did too. He seemed to think you had been trying to tell him something important earlier but he wasn’t in a state to listen. He said he could tell that by the way you said it was for Prim that you were up to something bigger. Said it was less of a vote and more of a ‘last rights’. I can’t tell you how much it irritates me that the two of you seem to be able to read each other’s minds, but in this, I guess am grateful that he could help me understand what happened.
> 
> I’ve asked for videos from your time as the Mockingjay, I hope you don’t mind. No one ever explained what really was going on or maybe I was too far gone to understand. I think it’s important I understand. I’ve become aware that I’ve made a lot of assumptions. They haven’t brought them yet, but Dr. A said they’re working on it. Maybe if I have questions once I watch them, you can help me.
> 
> I know I need to stay here for now. I’m not yet ready to face everything in 12, but I dream of when I can leave this place. I’d like to return to 12, I think. My doctors don’t think it’s wise, but what do they know, they’re just ‘practicing’ right? I want to get out of this hospital, and this district, and away from all these people who don’t really understand…everything. All I want is to go home, to feel at home, and 12 is the closest thing left to a home I can think of. I hope you were honest when you wrote that you’d like it if I were near. I think I’d like that too. I think you could understand what everyone else can’t. I promise it’ll be better than before. Certainly not perfect, but better. And like you said, better is pretty good for the two us.
> 
> I’m glad you didn’t read my previous letter. I don’t really remember what I wrote, but I know it was after a rough night of episodes and I think it may be less a letter and more a list of aggressions and accusations. I’m not like that any more. I mean, I still have countless questions you’re the only one who can honestly answer, but I’m not as angry as I once was about not knowing. There’s definitely no more demanding, just asking. Reading your letter helped. I realized I don’t actually know much about who you really are. I’ve got these three vivid versions of you in my mind: my childhood fantasy, the Katniss of the Games, and the Capitol’s mutt. The more I think about it, the more it’s clear that none of the three are real. I’m not sure how well I ever did at really learning who the real Katniss was, but your letter made me want to try to fix that.
> 
> Maybe once you decide who you are now that the war’s over and once I find my own self again, we can one day reintroduce ourselves. I’d like that.
> 
> Peeta

I read the pages once, twice, five times. I can hear his voice so clearly in my head as my eyes trace over each word. He sounds like Peeta, my Peeta, not hijacked windpipe-crushing Peeta.

He’s getting better. Better is good. Better means he may not be gone forever. Better means he might come back to 12. Better means he _wants_ to be near. I like better. I’ll take better.

I want to revel in that relief but my mind is stuck on one fact.

He is alone. He is in that place without anyone, only men in white coats making diagnoses and treating him more like a specimen than a person. He shouldn’t be alone. We don’t leave each other behind. Bad things happen when we split up. Johanna gives me concussions, I explode Arenas, and Snow takes Peeta away. _We’re supposed to protect each other_.

What am I supposed to do? Stupid Jo, why couldn’t she have stuck around? At least Peeta would have had a familiar face watching out for him and offering some company to look forward to each day. But no, she had to go all axe-woman on the place.

There’s no way I could leave the district without someone noticing immediately and even if I made it to whatever hospital he’s in, my presence would cause absolute chaos. But who else is there who could go to him? There are so few people I’d trust to this. Delly would be good for him, she helped him before. The suggestion leaves a slight bitterness in my mouth, but my mind recognizes she would be a safe and reliable person for the job. Problem is, I have no idea where she is or how to contact her. Last I saw her, she was in 13 with her brother. Who knows where she’s ended up in the months since?

I might trust Cressida, but Peeta never really knew her outside of filming propos. Her presence would likely not help and might make things harder by bringing up bad memories. Also, I’m sure Plutarch has her wrapped up in whatever is his newest brilliant idea.

No, I am left with only one name and I think I may be utterly mad for even considering it.

There is one woman who has always adored Peeta, always wanted to protect him, and could go so far as to say loved him, in her own lipstick-covered way.

Someone slap some sense into me, _am I really going to ask Effie Trinket to do this?_

No, this is madness.

I reread the letter again. My fingers trace over, “ _… I worry that I am left alone with my thoughts too much. The days pass slowly and I feel like I’m neither living nor dying...”_

_Dammit._

Alright Effie, where do I find you?

I pull off my covers and pad barefoot down the stairs. In the study, a telephone sits on the desk, cable unplugged. I prepare myself for the disaster I previously abandoned, holding my breath and careful of the shattered glass, however, upon entry, I’m greeted with a room in pristine condition. The broken items were removed and the air is surprisingly scent-free. I expect the telephone to be coated in dust as I’ve refused to touch the dreadful thing since returning to 12, but Sae must have used it at some point or included it in her cleaning. I’d much rather send her a letter, but I don’t want this to take any longer than it has to.

_You’ve been by yourself too long already, Peeta._

Placed beside the telephone is a small black notepad. Inside, in Effie’s wildly flourished pink cursive, is a list of the few phone numbers I would have ever needed. There’s a number for both Haymitch and Peeta’s house phones, numbers for my stylists, and the number I most often used, for Cinna. We would spend hours on the phone together. He was one of the few sources of any comfort between the Games. _Oh, how I miss you, Cinna._

I push past that grief and the burgeoning images of him being beaten while I’m trapped pounding against that awful tube. I can’t go there right now. I flip to the first page of the notebook where Effie has left me her phone number as well as a long list of feminine advice and beauty tips. The sight of the lineup warms my chest. She’s always been relentless in her care. That is exactly what we need right now.

Glancing at the clock, I decide it’s not too late, at least not for a socialite like Effie. I need to call now while I have the confidence, impulsiveness, and poor judgment to do so.

I approach the phone as if it is a wild animal that could attack at any moment. I grew to despise its shrill ringing and all it represented: people carrying on with their lives as if everything was okay or people calling to check in and see how broken Katniss Everdeen was. How shattered was the Mockingjay now that her beloved sister was gone? People calling with expectations or to talk when the last thing I wanted was to hear the sound of my own voice. The only voice I wanted to hear was gone the moment those parachutes exploded.

I reattach the cord, pick up the receiver, and listen to the steady hum of the dial tone. I type in the number and grip the handle tensely as the line connects and begins to ring. One ring, two rings, three rings. I may need to leave her a message. That sounds like such an awkward task. I have resigned to my fate when I hear a clattering on the other end of the line and a lilting voice chirp, “Good evening, this is Miss Effie Trinket speaking.”

I nearly drop the receiver in surprise. It’s really her. It’s really her in all her glory.

“Hello! Anybody there?” The voice sings out and I realize I need to say something.

“Um, hello,” I speak into the phone unconfidently. _Not off to a great start there, Katniss._

“Madam, I’m sorry, but I can barely hear you. You must speak more clearly!”

I take a deep breath. “Hello Effie, it’s Katniss Everdeen.”

“Oh my stars! Katniss, I can hardly believe it’s really you! I was sure they’d never fix the telephones in that district of yours. How are you, my dear?” Her enthusiasm is so genuine. By the sound of her voice, you’d think that I wasn’t someone who made her life ten times more difficult than it needed to be.

“I’m okay,” I answer unsure of how best to reply, but she takes no time in chiming in. “Oh Katniss, they sent you to that awful abandoned district, how _could_ you be any better than just okay. And for what, shooting that dreadful woman? In that polyester-blend suit, she was asking for it. You practically did her a favor. Treating you like some kind of criminal. It’s absolutely unjust.” I resist the urge to remind her that I am a criminal.

“Such a dreary place! And sent you off with only _Haymitch_ for company. What on earth were they thinking? It’s a miracle he hasn’t corrupted you yet. Perhaps I should make some calls and see about visiting you. What do you say to that? No wonder you called. You must be in dire need for someone with some culture and who knows how to chew with their mouth closed.” She is talking so quickly now I’m not sure what hope I have of stopping her tangent.

“I wonder how soon I can get out there. I may not have the same connections I once did, but for you, I could pull some strings for a hovercraft. Goodness me, I’ll have to buy a new wardrobe first though. I couldn’t possibly risk my couture in that environment. Would you like me to pick you up anything special while I go shopping? You must be desperate to know what the newest trends are. No worries, I’ll find you something divine.”

_Please, someone, give me strength._ I try to release any aggravation that may be mounting. This is simply Effie’s way of showing she cares. It is affection, pouffy glitter-wrapped affection. _Don’t be rude, Katniss._ Peeta always knew how to win Effie over. _Channel your inner Peeta._

“Effie, please, that’s very kind, but there’s a much more important request that I was hoping I could bring to you.” I try and build up its importance, “It’s very sensitive and I couldn’t think of anyone else I trusted more than you.” Effie has always thrived in the warm glow of that kind of recognition. I am still telling the truth albeit more dramatically than I ever would otherwise.

“Katniss, darling, I am honored you thought of me. Now, tell me, what is the problem?”

I gloss over the exact facts, “You see, I had not been receiving any communications, but today, I got a letter from Peeta.”

Her voice practically jumps up an octave. “Oh, Peeta, where is that sweet boy? I wanted to write to him, but no one could tell me where he went off. You must miss him terribly, my dear.” Her voice softens at the last sentence. Effie may not understand the level of difficulties between Peeta and me, but she has seen enough to know that we do better together than apart. That’s another point in her favor.

“He was checked into some special recovery facility near the border of the Capitol. He wrote as if it was being kept secret. Have you heard about a place like that run by a doctor named Aurelius? He was the one from my trial, if that helps.” I tell her the name of the street I vaguely recall Sae writing on my letter to him.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard some whispers here and there about such a place. That doctor is making quite a name for himself in certain circles.”

My eyes roll. The doctor that napped during every session I had with him and lied in a criminal case is making a name for himself. Brilliant.

“Effie,” I say softly, genuine concern tinting the edges of my voice, “he’s there all alone. He’s been stuck there for months all alone.” I hear a gasp on the other end of the line and then a growl more reminiscent of an angry mama bear than my district Escort. “He’s what?!” Her voice sounds deadly. I expected concern, but this is another level of intensity that I’ve never seen from her.

“I’m not sure of the details, but he’s completely on his own except for the doctors poking and prodding at him. I should be there, Effie, but I’ll be arrested the second I step out of this district. But what am I supposed to do? He writes as if he’s fine, but I know better.” My voice begins to crack, “He doesn’t have any family left, Effie, they’re all gone.”

Her voice is low and fierce, “They’re not all gone. He’s still got us. We’re his family.” It’s a statement, not a question.

And just like that, it becomes crystal clear that Effie is ready to be Peeta’s Sae. She may drive him up a wall, but just like Sae, Effie doesn’t care if they aren’t blood, she’s already adopted him and there’s no going back. This may not be such a terrible idea after all.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you be able to go and stay with him?” I’m sure she is busy with some long agenda of projects, but I’m counting on her being willing to adjust them.

“Doesn’t even need to be asked, my dear. I’ll clear my calendar and pack some bags tonight. I didn’t want to do any of those trivial get-togethers anyway. This, _this_ is important work.”

She sounds energized by the task I’ve brought her. It’s as if she’s been anxiously waiting in the wings to be called on by ‘her Victors’.

“That sweet boy needs someone by his side watching out for his interests. And I won’t let it be put off a moment longer. Peeta is so very polite, I am sure his good manners are giving those physicians far too much latitude.” There’s probably some truth to that guess. When it comes to his own needs, he can be far too acquiescent.

“Katniss, I am very grateful you brought this to my attention. You are correct; you can trust that I will ensure he receives the very best of care. Clearly there are some people who need to be reminded just who exactly they are dealing with.”

May the powers that be protect whoever tries to get in this woman’s way. I am a bit afraid of the storm I’ve just released. She’ll be running the facility by the end of the week. I hope Peeta won’t hate me for it. My hope is- if anything- he should find delight in watching her lecture and discipline the unsuspecting staff into shape. At least that should make the days much more interesting.

“Thank you, Effie. You don’t know how much of a relief this is. You will let me know if you need anything?”

“Oh Katniss, don’t you worry. I’ll have everything in hand in no time. I’ll contact you with an update once I arrive and evaluate the state of affairs. Perhaps I’ll stick to dialing you at night when you are less likely to be gallivanting about the trees.” I laugh and agree that it is a wise plan. Plus, no one else would ring at this hour so I’ll know it’s her calling.

“Must run, my darling.” Her voice returns to its sing-song tone, “So much to do!”

As I hang up the phone, a deeply hidden nostalgic piece of me misses hearing her voice chirping out exclamations about her “big, big, big day!”


	15. CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XV

“Kat!” Samson barrels into the room, eyes in search of me. I’m seated at the table where I have long since cleared my breakfast and am finishing my second cup of mint tea. “Kat, he said yes! He’s talking with Miss Sae now!”

Ah, I had expected this although I still doubt his father’s sense in doing so. When I left for the woods at dawn, I saved a small portion of the snare line checks in case this happened. The hike will be easy and there are a few different styles of traps I can introduce to him. It also is one of my favorite paths that will highlight several important markers to help his way-finding.

“Well no one can say you aren’t excited,” I comment drolly. “There’s some juice on the counter, help yourself.”

With a full glass, he joins me at the table. “Will we start today?” he asks eagerly.

“As soon as I confirm with Sae, we’ll be good to go.” At that, he pumps his fist in victory. I don’t think I realized how keen he was to begin.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a new hunting partner,” Sae’s voice calls out from the doorway. I try and muster a smile at that but the thought of my old hunting partner twists it into a grimace. Moving away from thoughts of the past I ask, “His father talked to you?”

She begins fixing her own cup of tea. “Yes, he was very thorough. He’s over the moon about you taking him out. Said he couldn’t wait to tell the guys on the crew and that Samson here will be the most envied man in 12.” I purse my lips and roll my eyes up at that. _Men._ “Said as long as you were teaching him how to be a hunter not a soldier he was good. Teach him to protect himself.”

Well then, I guess I’m doing this.

“Finish your juice and meet me in the back,” I tell Sam, standing from the table. He grabs his glass and knocks it back with four huge gulps. Wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve and jumping to his feet, he whoops, “I’m ready!”

Once outside I turn to him, “First thing’s first. The forest can be a dangerous place. It’s important to remember that we are guests out there. It’s their home first and there are times we may not be welcome. You have your slingshot?”

He pulls out the Y-shaped tool from his belt and holds it up. “Good call. I’d like you to also always carry this.” From my game bag, I pull out a hunting knife and leather sheath. It’s not as large as my father’s that I always carry, but it is definitely not delicate. It was one of the better trades I made at the Hob years ago. The blade needed some care, but once polished and sharpened, it proved to be high quality with a rather attractive antler handle.

“How does it feel in your hand?” I ask, unsheathing the knife and placing the handle in his hand. Wrapping his finger around the handle, “It’s heavier than it looks. Feels sturdy.” “Check the grip, can you hold on tight, no slipping? Not too big or too narrow?” I ask as I watch him testing each point.

“No, I like it. What is it made out of?” he questions as his thumb feels the grooves of the horn. “It’s an antler.” That doesn’t seem to mean anything to him, so I clarify, “A strong bone, looks like horns, that grow on and shed from bucks.”

I show him the proper ways to grip the knife, explaining when each grip is used best. I bluntly explain how in an animal attack, a straight hit to the heart is the goal, but jabs to the eyes, mouth, or throat will help. When we have game, it will make more sense to actually show him. I describe some of the more aggressive animals native to this region and how they attack. Bears, wildcats, and coyotes rarely found their way near the population, however my father gave me the same lecture when I was a kid and it’s a good practice to continue.

I’ll work with him daily so he can build up confidence but, after a half hour, I know he is at least comfortable enough to head out.

As we climb over the fallen fence, I watch Sam’s entire body shift. It’s an incredible thing. Even with it being early spring, the lush foliage is beginning to peek out. When you leave the oppressive man-made surroundings for this natural world, it has a way of sinking into your very pores. It wakes you up, and somehow you feel like you can suddenly breathe easier, see clearer, feel more.

After a few dozen steps I decide our first lesson will be about walking. He’s not as loud as Peeta but his heels drag and he has no awareness of the multitude of loud objects he is stepping on. We’re not actually hunting, so the stakes are much lower than when I asked Peeta to take off his boots in the first Games, nonetheless, the boy needs to learn the proper way to walk. Maybe starting young will gift him with velvet footsteps.

“Sam, watch my feet. What do you see?” I begin walking using my usual method. My pa used to call it fox walking. Samson is watching carefully, but seems nervous to speak up. Over my shoulder I try to calm him, “Come on, there’s no wrong answer. Just tell me what you notice.”

“You move slowly like you’re in water,” he starts weakly. “Good. What about where I’m stepping?” He watches for another few seconds.” You aren’t walking in a straight line. Your steps follow the dirt or soft grass instead.” I nod, “Why do you think I’m doing that?” He needs to reason this out, “Think now, what am I avoiding?”

“You’re avoiding all the twigs and dead leaves because… um because…,” I purposely step on a twig and its crack echoes out, “because the noise!” I can’t stop the smile. If the twig didn’t chase away the game, his shout just did.

“Now come closer and look at how my foot hits the ground.”

I show him how each foot is placed in line of the other and the step’s motion articulates from the outside blade rolling through from ball to heel. He tries to replicate it and I show him how to use his knees to increase balance and control. He reminds me of what I must have looked like when Effie spent hours teaching me to walk in heels. If I could do that he’ll be fine.

We move slowly so Sam can continue to practice as we walk. As we pass them, I point out important land markers. Some are naturally occurring, my large resting rock, the babbling brook, the hundred-foot fallen pine, and others are hidden symbols carved by my grandfather, my father, or me to provide warnings or directions.

I show him how to identify and avoid poison ivy and oak. The leaves are barely budding, but the hairy roots and vines of the poison ivy is warning enough. “Those are the two you have to be wary of when walking. Remember, ‘leaves of three, let it be’. The rashes will drive you mad. There are plenty of other plants that can make you sick, too. Just, in general, don’t put anything in your mouth unless you’re positive it’s safe.” He looks at me with a grave look in his eyes, “Like the berries.”

I swallow hard. The memory of the panic when I heard the canon and thought Peeta had eaten them still feels fresh.

“Yes, Sam, like the berries.”

We finally make it out to the unchecked snares. He still seems energized and ready to learn so I take him through the forms and functions of the snares I use. There are several different types set in the area, so he can examine each one. Building and resetting is something we’ll work on later, but today I only want to introduce him to the concept and let him watch. He’s a smart kid, he can learn a lot from just watching.

As we walk back to the house, Samson opens the floodgates to a variety of questions. Most are perceptive but some lean towards general curiosity. It reminds me of the fortune I had in having a father that taught me these fundamentals at such a young age.

“Why don’t you use your bow?” His question surprises me. It shouldn’t. Of course he would wonder why Katniss Everdeen wouldn’t be carrying her famous bow. Sam has a way of accidentally asking the hardest personal questions. An explanation is needed, but how much do I really want him to know about me and my ugly truths. I look at his eager face and the shining adoration that is beaming up at me. It is a look so similar to my little duck I feel chills jump to attention across my skin. Would I have confided to my Prim? She certainly would have interrogated me over the absence of a bow. Would I have risked that admiration had for me by telling her of my failures?

“I did some awful thing with a bow,” the words leap from my gut.

“I know- I know I did a lot of good too, and I would never regret that. It’s just… it became so easy… so automatic to shoot. Those instincts saved my life and others’ numerous times, but… I wonder at what cost.”

I stop walking, close my eyes, and lift my chin to the sky.

“I’ve aimed an arrow at good people because my instincts said ‘threat’.” I remember standing at the lightning tree completely prepared to finish off Finn. Guilt simmers as I remember my thoughtless comment about being able to shoot Peeta because he’d become one of Snow’s mutts.

“The day we took the Capitol, there was a woman,” my mind drags me back to one of the many faces that haunt my dreams. She had pale pink hair and wore blue silk. I’ll always remember how the blood contrasted to the turquoise of the fabric. “She was about to scream and reveal our location, and I just…” _Shot her_ , I finish in my head. Killed her without hesitation. I lower my face down and clutch my hands together self-consciously. “That’s not why my father taught me to use a bow.”

Sam moves to sit on a felled tree, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Do you think he’d be disappointed in you?”

I turn my head away in shame. “Yeah, I think he would.”

I have no doubt my father would have been so proud of Prim and all she’d become. But me, me who he spent the most time with, teaching and nurturing and loving, I let him down. I should have been better.

“Why do you think he first taught you how to shoot?” Samson asks, carefully trying not to cross any unspoken lines on the topic. I look off into the shadowed forest and can so vividly picture that small girl and her father slinking between the trees.

“Archery is a family tradition. It’s a core part of the Everdeen line. And even though I wasn’t a boy, I think he felt that I was the one to pass the gift on to.”

I knew, even at a young age, the importance of what my father was sharing with me. It was more precious than any heirloom that could have been handed down; it was a core piece of him and all that came before him.

“I also know he took the dangers of life in Panem very seriously. He wanted me to be able to protect myself and provide not only the family but for my neighbors,” a small fond smirk finds my face, “laws be damned.” I try and to find the right way to describe the honor that my father felt at the task. “For him, using a bow and arrow wasn’t about using a weapon, it was a duty of care.”

That’s the crux of it isn’t it? It stopped being about caring and became only a means of survival. To others, the line between the two doesn’t exist. That certainly is true for Gale. When we would hunt, he used to tease me for the care I would take with my kills. If I could prevent killing a mother and orphaning its offspring I would. If I had the opportunity to make a bad shot that would only injure, I would wait only until I had a clean kill. I was never emotional like Prim’s sentimental tears, but I was always conscious of the impact of taking a life, even if it was for food. My father drilled in the responsibility that came with hunting.

> _“We are not the spiders weaving the web of life, little moon,”_ my father would say, _“We are merely a strand.”_

He firmly believed that we were all connected. With each kill, we had an obligation to respect its life by never being unkind in the means of death and honor it by never wasting or devaluing its sacrifice.

“Could it help if you taught me the way your dad taught you? Y’know, go back to your roots,” Sam asks bashfully looking up through his lashes.

“You want to use a bow?”

“The slingshot worked and I liked being the one that helped but… I don’t know, using it always made me sad.” He grimaces. “Wasn’t really a nice way to die.” That’s true enough. Even if you land a headshot, you are lucky if the death is instantaneous. It’s messy due to the blunt force instead of the sharp point of an arrow.

_How can I teach him to use a bow when I don’t want to pick one up myself?_ He does have a point; it could help to remember the heart of why I learned. I do miss it. Everyday my fingers itch for a bowstring, and I can’t help the melancholy I feel at my disappearing calluses. I have always preferred an arrow kill to a snare. Yes, it’s designed to be as quick as possible, but it’s not guaranteed and the remains are left around carelessly until I can make the rounds.

Another thought chafes at me: snares were always Gale’s thing, archery was always mine.

My bow and arrow is as much a part of my genetics as my dark hair and silver eyes. Do I want to let the Games and this awful war take that away from me too?

“I’ll try, Sam.” We’ll take it slow.


	16. CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVI

I ignore the internal turmoil and carry my bow, quiver, arrows, and tools out to the back porch. It has been a couple afternoons since Samson’s request, and with each day in the woods, his confidence continues to grow. He is hungry for knowledge and I have grown to enjoy the pleasant distraction of teaching him. It makes the days pass a bit faster and gives me something to focus on instead of the hollowness inside me.

Yesterday, we climbed trees and looked at tracks we came across. He delighted in the speed he picked up climbing, having previous practice from when he was in hiding with his father. Today, I pointed out some of the early spring edible plants and what each part could be used for. He tasted each as we went and I was audience to the wide variety of faces a small boy could make. He selected some of his favorites and bundled them like a large bouquet to present to Sae.

“Come here,” I call out, “I want to show you something.”

My young assistant appears to be trying to balance a shovel on the palm of his hand, but tosses it aside to hustle over when he sees the old yew bow in my hand. The feel of it is still uncomfortable, but when I remind myself that I’m not going to use it, just talk about it, the discomfort eases enough to bear.

It’s not an impressive or beautiful piece, no concern in its design beyond functionality. But there’s an honesty to it. It’s tried and true. Grooves loved into the wood and leather. “This is one of my father’s favorite bows. It’s yew, a rare wood to find and it gives an especially strong compression and tension. However, we’ve got plenty of trees out there in the woods that will work for yours.”

“Wait, we’re going to make a bow just for me?” Sam practically shouts.

I give a sisterly pat to his shoulder. “No, _you’re_ going to be making a bow just for you. I’ll talk you through it, but it’s up to you to do the work. It’s important you know how to make one and it’s the best way to understand the basics.”

He looks like he’d leap into my arms in gratitude if he wasn’t unsure of my reaction. I guess that was the right call. I figured he’d appreciate his own and the pride of making it himself. And it may have also been motivated by the fact that making the bow will take time, which will successfully delay the actual shooting lessons. But Sam doesn’t need to know that part.

“When I was little and my father first introduced me to archery, he said that the shape of a bow and arrow were a constant reminder of the world we have been given.” I hold out the yew bow. “The bow is shaped like a sliver of the moon. Constant yet flexible, predictable like the cycling of the moon.” I switch the bow for an arrow and hand it to him. “He said an arrow is always straight like the rays from the sun piercing through the treetops, graceful in its power.”

I walk him through each part, from back to belly, from stave to string. Then I pull out a quiver full of arrows and my toolbox of spare parts. I point out the critical components: a sharp arrowhead, a perfectly straight shaft, trimmed and matching feather fletching, and properly sized notch.

A crash and a curse echo from around the house. For as stealthy as Haymitch once was, these days he gives away his position with every step. Sam’s head pops up at the racket and he looks at me with concern. I roll my eyes and wave away his worry with my hand. It’s just Haymitch, nothing to worry about other than his stench. I go back to the arrow, explaining why the fletching is important and the process of making them. As I point out the difference between the arrow’s current fletching compared to some of the spares in my toolbox, my mentor stumbles into the backyard and zeroes in on me.

His eyes move to the sight of the bow and arrow

“Who gave you a weapon, sweetheart?”

His eyes then land on Sam. He blinks repeatedly as if he isn’t sure what he is seeing is a mirage. “Shit, never mind that, who the hell gave you a kid?”

I let out a small snort. He has such a way with words.

“Haymitch, this is Samson.” I gesture casually, “Samson, meet my illustrious mentor, Haymitch Abernathy.” Both of them stare at me wide eyed. So much for introductions.

“Not answering my question, sweetheart,” the elder of the two pushes.

“Sae’s doing, take your concerns up with her,” I reply, hoping that will stop his questions before this becomes a full inquisition.

“I can’t,” he huffs, “I don’t even know where to begin with this.” He trips over one of the plant beds but catches himself before wiping out. “A man enjoys a few day’s of solitude and comes out to find you adopting minors and my phone ringing as if another rebellion is starting.”

“Is there a reason you’re gracing us with your presence?” I ask, exasperated as I try to skip his dramatics and get to the point. Haymitch rarely shows up just to be social, so something is either wrong or he needs something.

“I’m here for an explanation,” he states accusingly. From the look on Sam’s face, he thinks he is about to watch two District 12 Victors go toe-to-toe.

“Maybe I should go?” He asks softly, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

“Why don’t you head into the kitchen. Sae should be over soon to start dinner,” I suggest. He doesn’t need to be told twice and bolts off the porch and inside to safety.

“We’ll be talking about _this_ later,” he says, raising an eyebrow and pointing between me and where Sam just stood.

“Whatever, Haymitch. What explanation do I owe you?”

“I’d like to know why after weeks of effort to convince Miss Euphemia Pain-in-my-ass Trinket that there are no working phones in District 12, I now have her calling at all hours and leaving me irritatingly polite threats to my manhood,” he wheezes out in frustration.

I want to laugh at this unexpected consequence of involving Effie in Peeta’s care, but I am sure to keep my face completely unresponsive for Haymitch. I don’t want him snooping into this and poking into my motives.

I should have known that Effie’s phone calls would not have stopped at her notifying me of her arrival at the recovery facility. Late on the night following my call to her, she had already discovered the facility and arrived in what I imagine were her pointiest of shoes. She called from a liberated secretary’s phone to let me know she was there but still waiting to see Peeta. The protests of the secretaries, doctors, and who knows who else could be heard in the background, but Effie assured me they’d soon ‘realize the error of their ways’ and ‘fall in line’ in no time. I honestly, did not doubt that for a second.

After a busy day of traveling, calling me, and terrorizing the staff she much have decided to direct her efforts towards Haymitch. I can’t help but find a little joy in her thought process.

“Oh don’t play innocent, that woman talks too much to not have given away some of what you’re up to. So let’s try again, why is Effie Trinket intent on ruining my days by scolding me about corrupting you with bad table manners and abandoning Peeta to a bunch of - oh what did she call them - wait I wrote it down.” He pats his pockets, feeling for a note, and then holds his left palm to his face discovering the note he apparently scrawled there. He clears his throat dramatically, “to a pack of loathsome pettyfogging nincompoops.”

I’m helpless in stopping the snort that slips past. Damn it Effie, only you could find a way to shake me off my game from thousands of miles away. “Can you tell me what any of those words mean?” he asks brusquely. I chuckle openly now, “Not a one.”

“So what’s the story, sweetheart,” Haymitch asks, perhaps a bit more levelly this time. “ ‘Cause it’s sounding like you’ve gone completely off your rocker and been ringing up Effie of all people.”

I cross over and lift myself up to sit perched on the porch railing. “That’s pretty much the case,” I mumble and shrug.

Haymitch takes a deep breath in and then sighs out loudly, letting it evolve into a growl by the end. “Okay, explain to me why you would do such a stupid thing,” he says in defeat as he drops himself onto the porch swing. At least he’s listening now.

“I got a letter from Peeta.”

Haymitch’s eyebrows jump at that fact. I wonder if that’s for there being a letter from Peeta or that I read a letter period.

“He wrote about the place where Aurelius brought him. And I,” I puff a large breath out of my cheeks, “I don’t know Haymitch, I couldn’t stand the thought of him trapped there with only doctors for company. After everything, he shouldn’t be alone like that.”

He frowns at that thought, and I know he understands where I’m coming from. If it were either of us in that situation, we’d have likely burned the place to the ground already.

“I knew I couldn’t be there,” I raise an eyebrow for effect, ”for a variety of very obvious reasons. And you have to stay here to make sure I don’t accidentally assassinate another president.” Haymitch chokes on the recent swallow from his flask. “So I tried to list out the people I would trust to be there. You try it. Try to think of someone who he would recognize and not panic at the sight of, who would make sure he’s cared for, who would keep his secrecy, and who would have no problem pushing through any rules or red tape that the doctors might try to use to interfere. Only one name comes up, doesn’t it?”

Haymitch face looks like he’s sucking on a lemon as he attempts to prove me wrong. “Fine! Yes, you’re right. Effie’s the right choice, the shrew.” He rubs his hands across the coarse whiskers of his face. Then peeks through his fingers. “Did you really pick up the phone and call her?”

I nod, but don’t embellish with any details so he follows up, “You hear from her since you called to ask?”

“A couple nights ago she called when she got to the facility. They were trying to block her from seeing him, but I’ll tell you Haymitch, she was in rare form. No way they were going to stop her. I swear if her and Sae were to join forces, they could singlehandedly overthrow the new government.” I say more to myself, “I think… I think he’ll be in good hands.”

He squints at me, making some kind of silent evaluation. It’s the same calculating gaze he used on that first train ride when he decided I might not be entirely a lost cause. I shift from my perch, uncomfortable at the intense appraisal.

“You did good, sweetheart,” he concedes gently, but then adds, “But I’m still going to be pissed at you for putting Trinket on my ass, got it?”

I should reply with some retort or biting insult, but instead his words from months ago rattle through my memory. Haymitch was the one to pull me back from provoking Peeta when Coin sent him to attack me. He was the one to remind me that Peeta would never have treated me that way if our roles were reversed. He told me to “try and remember.” We all can use that, sometimes.

Channeling the same words he once said to me, I slide off the railing and look at him soberly before leaving the porch, “ _You and me made a deal to try and save him, remember?”*_

* * *

_*Quote from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	17. CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVII

“The demo equipment delivery will arrive on a flatbed attached to your next train of crews,” an accented voice answers out of the speaker box.

Although I have been up in the tree for the last two hours, I feel at ease as I listen in on yet another “Strategic Planning” video call from the Unit Command team to the Capitol. The coolness of winter has passed, and with the arrival of April, mildness has settled into the air. Combined with the bright stars of this cloudless night, it makes for a peaceful hideaway.

Earlier, the local team debriefed the others on the complete retrieval and burial of our fallen citizens. The Meadow is now their permanent resting place. Samson had mentioned that with the completion of that work, many of the first crew left to return to their homes. Twenty men decided to stay for the next phase of the rebuild and about thirty fresh workers arrived a few days ago to assist in preparations for demolition. An additional influx of laborers is expected to arrive within week.

“How many were you able to get?” asks Vern from the back of the room.

“You will have sixty-five workers on the next train. Is the dormitory ready for inhabitants?” Daven, the blacksmith’s son is the one who steps forward to answer, “Yes, those prefab walls went up in only a day – it was an impressive sight – and we got furniture in two days ago. We’ll have plenty of room.”

The new building looks like a large cabin, simple and natural. It sits outside the gates of the Village so, I assume, they can be near to the other houses and of course the food. The pieces of the building were pre-built in District 7 and, if what Sam says is true, all the workers had to do was put it together like a puzzle.

“So we’ll total around 120 on-call. Should be enough,” Max’s militaristic voice notes authoritatively. I try to ignore the anxiety that thought brings me. The number of people here will have doubled. Twice as many strangers to hide away from and more will follow.

“With the workforce and equipment on hand, the remaining structures should be razed in ten to fifteen days. The new crews for construction should be on standby for an arrival on the 15th. I’d recommend a total labor force around 150 until we have the infrastructure for more.”

I’ve grown to easily recognize the voices of the core unit. Of course Thom, Colton, and the Waylands are familiar, however, after my recurring listening missions, the other four are old friends at this point. I know the last to speak was Kelvin, with his precise and monotone delivery. You can always count on Kelvin to stick to the facts. Very economic.

“We’ll plan accordingly,” a voice from the Capitol confirms.

President Paylor’s voice takes command. “I’d like to go over the current design proposals from the architects. Thom, as you have been closest to those conversations, will you take the lead?”

He replies, “Yes, Madam President. Kelvin, can you put up the drawings for everyone?” I’m surprised that Thom has been so involved with the designers. With his miner’s personality, I expected he’d be out with the manual workers not locked up in meetings with Plutarch’s city architects. Although his presence seems out of place, it’s encouraging that he is there. Someone needs to prevent Plutarch and company from going too far off the rails.

“The linear ‘main street’ city shape will be replaced with a semicircular design with radiating interconnected spokes. This is intended to create a feeling of inclusion and unity as well as an easy format for the building schedule. At its apex will be the new municipal buildings and train terminal. Shops and residences will be spread across the various spokes instead of clustered disproportionately. This structure has the added benefit of developing in phases and also will not require all of the rebuild to take place on the demolished district footprint. You’ll see on this drawing, that forty percent of the former district is outside the parameters of the current city plan which will assist in meeting the mid-summer goals that the administration is aiming for. Construction can occur in these other segments at a later time as the population expands."

“Where are law enforcement headquarters? I don’t see it on the map, and it’s got to be a priority. Thom, we’ve discussed this,” I clench my stomach at the gruff voice of my former hunting partner. I guess that answers the unspoken question of where he’s been. The voice is unmistakably his, but something about it sounds off. It’s cold and tinted with a superior imperiousness that sets me on edge. _Who have you become, Gale Hawthorne? Your mother would be dragging you out by your ear if she heard you using that tone._

So the boy who was ready to stage an ill-planned coup against the Peacekeepers is now asserting their preeminence over other district concerns?

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people change and yet somehow remain the same. For Gale, his new position of authority may put him on a different side of the issue, but he is still the same boy strategizing on how to defeat his opponents and amass more power. I can picture him as a toddler trying to build the most intimidating blanket fort possible and arming himself with toy block grenades.

_Was that what I was to him? Was I a declared territory he was warding off from intruders?_ No, no that can’t be. No, I know there was more there, a deeper kinship between us.

“We understand that, Captain Hawthorne-” Thom begins, but is cut off by Gale, “Then let’s fix this now, Thom. We don’t have the time to waste delaying this conversation.”

Thom pauses, and then calmly answers, “As you’ll see on the next image, law enforcement will be located at the town apex along with _other_ important district buildings like schools, medical, and mental health facilities.” Thom’s reply is more patient than I anticipated but his scorn is clear by his tone when reminding Gale of the other things important to citizens’ well being such as education and health.

Paylor tries to move on from the awkwardness in the room. They discuss the public interest in resettling and opening businesses in the new district. Then, they discuss the potential trades and various landmarks that will feature in each of the radiating roads. Most have yet to be determined but there is an obvious priority to make places where the community can gather socially. It’s hard to imagine. Outside of required gatherings related to the Games, that is a foreign concept in 12.

Victors Village will be renamed but will remain as government-owned properties with the exception of the homes of the living Victors. _Well at least Haymitch, Peeta, and I won’t be looking at eviction._ We will, however, always have neighbors connected to the government. Not an appealing thought.

Plutarch begins to suck up all the air in the room as he pontificates on his new vision. It’s clear that some of his grander ideas were originally in the city plans but were overridden along the way. However, as always, he is as unrattled as ever, realigning to appear to be the master puppeteer. Once a Gamemaker, always a Gamemaker.

After another fifteen minutes of updates and reminders, the meeting begins to wrap up. I close my notebook expectantly but then hear Plutarch’s voice call out, “Before we sign off, can we get an update on the Mockingjay?”

He couldn’t let the opportunity pass, could he? I thought they banished me to 12 to be forgotten. And why must he insist on calling me that? I suppose to him, I will always be the icon first, _the Mockingjay_ or _the Girl on Fire._ Simple Katniss Everdeen is not exciting enough for his taste.

Thom diplomatically replies when it is obvious no one else will step forward. “What exactly are you looking for, sir? She hasn’t caused any trouble with the crews.” Plutarch huffs with frustration, “You know I don’t mean that. What does she look like, what is she up to? Our citizens are desperate for details and I’ve been told I can’t send out a film crew. There must be something, man!”

I dread whatever ideas float through Plutarch’s head as he imagines what my life is like here in 12. Does he imagine a fantasy of a luxurious retreat in my finest banquet gown or does he salivate over the drama of the nervous breakdown of a haggard war torn girl. Either would get him excellent ratings, I imagine. Both turn my stomach.

Colton’s voice takes advantage of the opening, “Our Katniss is as lovely as ever.”

A few of the men in the room snort at that. He delivered it with such reverence even I want to laugh. Colton may be a flirt, but this is him putting on a show for a bit of mischief.

“My dreams are filled with thoughts of her _tending her garden_ all day long.” Another round of snorts and chuckles erupt, and I feel my cheeks redden in embarrassment. _Damn it Colton, too far._

“Garden?” I hear Gale’s voice sneer, “Get your dreams in check, Colton. There’s no way Catnip is skipping around picking flowers all day.”

I try not to feel ashamed by his comment. I’m not some Delly-like princess frolicking about. I’m gardening. It makes me feel better. I can be of use to Sae. I’m gardening to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted. I’m gardening vegetables and fruits and herbs. Sure, some may be flowers, but they are good, strong flowers. How does he have the power to make me feel so inferior with just a few words?

The laughter has stopped. His derision seems to cause a shift in the room.

“Well, well, well Captain Hawthorne, your information must be out of date. I can assure you my dreams are perfectly accurate. And by the look of all the delivered supplies that Thom _personally_ carried for her, Katniss’ _hands_ are being kept _plenty busy_.” His words may be playful but his voice is challenging. And no doubt, he is enjoying how the double meaning of his words could be suggestively misconstrued. Honestly, if he wasn’t so harmless I’d punch him in the face.

“Gardening!” Plutarchs cheers. “There’s my Mockingjay! What an image for a new era! Planting forget-me-nots to never forget the fallen, trading violence for violets! She is literally growing new life from the remains of 12! GAH! That girl always makes my job so easy. I swear, you can’t write it! Excuse me I must make some calls. Gardening!”

They end the video call quickly, likely to avoid any more off-topic conflicts between the younger men on the group. Old man Wayland’s voice is the first to speak. His voice sounds full mirth, “You put on quite a show there, Colt. Enjoy yourself?”

“Not as much as I would if I could smack that smug little smirk off his face. How were we ever friends?” He deepens his voice and attempts to impersonate Gale’s new government persona, “Then let’s fix this now, Thom.” The room of men laugh and Max’s voice compliments Thom, “You handled that well, son. You stayed calm when he tried to bait you, didn’t back down, but responded respectfully and accurately.”

“Thanks, Max,” he replies softly, “he doesn’t make it easy sometimes.”

The richly low voice of Vern asks, “There a story there?”

Thom seems wary to go into details but I, like the others, would really like to know what caused the hostility. Colton offers, “I mean, we were neighbors and worked on the same crew, but I never liked the guy. Thom was much closer with him.” He gives Thom an oddly sympathetic look then turns back to the group.

“You know, he kept Katniss from making friends with anyone else but him. Then he’d rub all our faces in it. That grudge might just be my own. Really it’s all about how things went down during the rebellion - oh come on Thom, it’s not some big secret.”

“It’s nothing really. He just changed once the war started,” Thom abates.

“Oh that’s generous,” Colton interrupts. “The man turned into an absolute ass. Strutting about 13, kissing that creepy Coin woman’s ass, and using his connection with Katniss to leverage his own promotions. He left all us normal folk from 12 behind to join the ‘Star Squad’ and act the hero. And he got, I don’t know - how’d you describe it Thom?”

“Malicious.” The word is said with precision as if he has stayed up at night trying to properly identify it. “We all hated the Capitol. We were more than ready to fight, but he was… bloodthirsty. Everything was black or white. He showed no sympathy and constantly ranted about Peeta being a traitor. He thought everyone who wasn’t with us was against us, and needed to be removed permanently.”

“Ah, I’ve seen those in the field,” Max consoles. “War brings out a lot of the ugly in people.”

“I don’t know if he didn’t think we’d ever catch wind, but once we all heard that it was his plan to collapse the Nut and take no survivors most of us Seam folk lost our respect for him,” Colton adds.

Thom explains, “Every person from the Seam has lost kin to a mining accident, Gale included. Hell, most of us spent every day sure that there’d be another cave in or explosion and that would be the day we would die in the dark gasping for air. None of us would wish that fate on another person, even our enemies.” He sighs heavily no doubt trying to push out the memories of the mines.

Colton takes over. “One of the widows from 12 was on cleaning duty in the 13 Command offices when she overheard the whole comm broadcast from their meeting at the Nut. Gale openly wanted to kill every man, woman, and child in that mountain, innocent or not, ally or not. And our Katniss, she tried to reason with him, tried to explain why the idea of it was so unimaginable and thankfully they at least left an escape tunnel open.”

“That level of hatred is toxic,” Kelvin’s voice says softly. And I know it’s the truth, because Kelvin spoke the words. And Kelvin only speaks in facts.

I leave after that, not interested in hearing more. I lived it once, and it was bad enough the first time. It was like being complicit it my own father’s death. Now with a mind un-muddled by morphling, it is all the more heinous. As I walk back to my house, my head feels over-full and eyes feel heavy. I’m ready to crawl into bed to forget all this day has drudged up. Sometimes I wonder if the knowledge we gain from my little jaunts are worth all the trouble.

As I walk through the back door, I nearly jump out of my skin when the blaring ring of the telephone greets me. At this hour, it must be Effie. I have been waiting for an update for the last few days, and although exhausted, I don’t want to miss my opportunity to finally get one.

“Katniss, darling, I am so pleased I caught you. I tried ringing earlier and you weren’t around, but I just had to try again!” Effie’s voice tinkles out like crystals through the handset.

“Oh I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where I could possibly begin. How many days has it been since we last spoke – it feels like weeks! You know, despite the incompetents I must contend with, I am rather enjoying myself. I haven’t felt this useful since your Victory Tour.” She puffs, “However, must tell you, I have yet to find a single person with any sense of style. I strongly believe that perhaps they are all so inept because of their dangerously low thread counts.”

I have yet to get in a single word. I imagine Effie could have this entire conversation by herself, without any contributions from me, but I should help her along or we’ll be here all night.

“I am glad you’re there, Effie. Last we spoke you had arrived and they weren’t letting you-.” She cuts in, “Oh those fools, what were they thinking!? The thought that they would stop me from seeing my Peeta is complete poppycock.”

I do not miss the possessive use of “my” that she now uses when speaking of Peeta.

“Absolute nonsense! They quickly learned that there is no length an Escort won’t go for her Victor. You know Katniss, I think you might have rubbed off a smidgen on me. Some of these hirelings seem absolutely terrified of me now, some have even tried to outrun me!”

What a mental picture. Thankfully I never taught Effie how to use a weapon.

“I admit I may revel in the power of it all.” She lets out a giggle that sounds innocent, but sends chills down my spine, “Oh, Katniss, you should have seen it, their lumpy last-season clogs clip-clopping across the foyer in retreat.”

And I’ve lost her again, granted my evening has improved with this newfound knowledge. I regret not getting to see it firsthand. Hell, even Haymitch would have enjoyed watching that performance.

“Have you seen Peeta?” I ask, intent on actually getting a useful update from this call.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Katniss, you must be so worried and here I am blathering on and on. Yes, not only have I seen him, I’ve relocated both of us to a premiere set of rooms that much better suit our particular quality of life. I’ve done a bit of shopping, and I believe it will be rather charming by the time I’m done. I’m calling it _health retreat chic_.”

“How is he?” I ask, ignoring the beginnings of her décor ramblings. “Is he okay with you being there with him?”

I have been on edge, worried that her arrival might anger him or make things worse. Has he added yet another strike against my character? It was a big risk to take and I made it quickly. Many times that impulsiveness works out well for me, but other times using a bit more forethought wouldn’t hurt.

“He was so pale, Katniss,” she whispers. “He looked like he hadn’t been allowed in the sun for months. He seemed tired and confused, not himself at all. Apparently that is a side effect of the medication he’s on for his episodes, but I assure you, I will be looking into everything they have him on. I have already reached out to some credible consultants and have put them on retainer. We’ll let Peeta have much more of a say in his treatment from here on out.

“Honestly,” she huffs angrily, “these doctors treat my sweet boy more like a science experiment than a person and he goes along trusting that they know best.”

My fists curl at that. It takes very little to imagine their grotesque fascination in both his torture and his perseverance. I’m sure the science behind it is alluring to those who have no sympathy for what he’s actually going through. None of them truly know how to help him recover. That was one of the few straight answers Plutarch ever gave me. There’s no knowledge on hijacking ever being reversed, not even hints that it has been attempted. It would be quite the career-making achievement to be a part of the team that found a breakthrough and for the famous Victor Peeta Mellark no less.

“You’ll stop them from taking advantage?” I ask to avoid the ruder curses I’d rather exclaim.

“Oh, my dear, their lives have gotten exponentially more difficult since my arrival. If my plan proceeds as scheduled, by next Thursday they won’t be able to sneeze without my knowledge and subsequent paperwork.”

“I knew you were the right woman for the job,” I admit. “Peeta is comfortable around you,” I try to ask delicately, “no episodes?”

“It took a bit of time to convince him he wasn’t hallucinating, but I think he may have mostly been teasing me. I think we took him by surprise is all. Poor thing was so desperate for some decent company.” She stops, her voice deepening in its gravitas, “You were completely correct, Katniss, he was alone. And that is unacceptable.” She sniffs, and I can perfectly picture her raising her nose into the air haughtily and fluttering her long lashes. “We sat and talked for hours and he slowly drifted back to the boy I could recognize. And before he would fall asleep, he kept asking if I was truly going to stay with him. It was as if he was afraid he’d wake in the morning to find I had disappeared.”

“Is there anything you need?” I ask unsure of what assistance she would ever consider accepting from me.

“Oh, you have become rather sweet, haven’t you?”

I automatically grimace in response. Me sweet? Never.

“I can’t think of anything- Oh!” she gasps. “I nearly forgot - one moment - let me pull out my notes.” There’s a gentle rustling and the sound of pages being rapidly flipped. “Peeta said, and I quote, ‘Tell Katniss that I received her colorful delivery and it’s been brightening my day, but I hope to still receive my letters from her.’ Isn’t that just darling?” she chirps. “Now, I haven’t seen whatever gift it is you sent him, he must be keeping it a secret, but oh, I couldn’t wait to pass on his message.”

I rub my pink cheeks shyly, worried of a betraying blush that Effie wouldn’t even be able to see. A colorful delivery might be the kindest description of Effie Trinket I’ve ever heard. His veiled thank you for her arrival is enough to subdue my worry. And more letters? I’ll have to work myself up to another one. I had assumed the one letter would cover all of my required writing for the next year.

We say our goodbyes, a process that takes five minutes longer with Effie than it would any normal person. She has a lengthy checklist of tasks. She seems energized and focused by her duties, traits when not related to sending children to be slaughtered are much more impressive.

Her dedication does make me wonder whether she has any real friends or family. She seemed unconcerned with dropping everything and abandoning her life for an unknown period of time. I’d always pictured her life outside the Games being full of large Capitolite gatherings overflowing in food and frivolity, but maybe that was more my prejudice than reality. It hits me that, besides my remaining prep team, few fellow escorts and stylists survived the war. And her family… well, I can’t remember her once mentioning them.

My dreams that night are full of sharp needles, white rooms, and the sound of tracker jackers buzzing in my ears. Peeta, strapped to a hospital bed wrists bleeding from his restraints but eyes dead and empty, too tired or too medicated to fight anymore. When we spoke of dying for each other in the Quell, neither of us imagined this. A quick or violent death sure, but this? I know I was never worth this kind of torture.

There was a reason I grabbed that syringe when I thought the Capitol had retrieved us from the Arena. Like what my father taught me when hunting, there is such thing as a noble death. And I knew, Snow had no honor. He was all barbarity and spectacle. A clean kill would not have satisfied. Like a cruel child, he took pleasure in watching the ants burn under his magnifying glass.

I wrap the quilt, Peeta’s quilt, around my shoulders tightly. My breathing is shallow and uneven. _Are my ribs too small for my chest?_ I think that might be the problem. Or maybe my heart is too big for it because it’s beating so loudly it practically echoes off the walls. My body shakes with such a force it feels as if I might vibrate into a pile of dust. Will that be what Sae finds in the morning, Peeta’s quilt cradling nothing but a small pile of dust?

Somewhere deep inside my stampeding mind, I know this will pass. It will pass like it always does. My nightly hysteria, sometimes worse than this, sometimes better, but always there. There is too much darkness packed into my memories and my dreams seem to always open the box where I keep them tightly contained. In about twenty minutes the panic will subside and I can put my pieces back together and begin my day. It is just a part of life now.

* * *

I’ve set Sam up with all the tools he will need to construct his bow. Over the last several days, we have been gathering materials and I know I can’t put it off any longer. Sam found and dried a handsome hazelnut wood for the stave and, last Wednesday, we were lucky enough to catch a wild turkey so he’s got the feathers for fletching. Finally, yesterday, I took him out to the maple trees where he retrieved a bag full of fine straight-lined branches for arrows. I’ll provide my stock of hemp fibers and sinew for him to twist into string. Ideally he’d harvest and treat these too, but it’s the wrong season for the fibers and we won’t be catching anything in the snare that wound have large enough tendons to be of use.

It’s a cloudless afternoon, nothing but the blazing sun and a bright blue sky. Sam is suited up with thick gloves and eye protection as he hacks away at the hazelnut. He’s making quick work of splitting the trunk in two, not needing much help from me other than supervision and guidance.

An hour later, he’s decided which half will be his stave and I’ve shown him how to use the drawknife on some practice scraps. Once he’s comfortable with the movements, I stop his practice.

“Now look at the growth rings,” I point out. “The lighter is brittle early wood, whereas the darker shade is the stronger flexible late summer wood. Which do you think is better for a bow?” I ask.

“The strong bendy one, obviously,” Sam replies, his brusqueness giving away his fatigue. I softly laugh, understanding his tone. “How about we take a break, eat some lunch.” His arms are going to have a bigger workout later, he’ll need to power-up.

After a hearty meal, I watch as Sam spends the next several hours smoothing out the back of the bow and moving on to the more exhausting task of taking a hatchet to remove wood from its sides and belly. While he’s toiling, I’ve pulled out the plant book and a thick journal of my mother’s medical notes that I discovered in the study.

As I flip the pages, I watch as her handwriting evolves from childlike print to a mature cursive. Towards the end, another script interrupts my mother’s periodically. These are my Prim’s musings from only a mere year or two ago. The ink feels fresh under my fingers as if it dried only moments ago.

_She was such a kind soul._ She writes about her concerns for Haymitch, more specifically the effects of his drinking. She lists out ingredients like milk thistle and burdock for a tonic that might help his stomach and liver, although she admits that given the length of his drinking and its probable continuance, it wouldn’t make a big difference.

Her thoughts are insightful and nuanced despite her age. Her brightness is on full display. I feel the profound sense of failure rise higher in my soul. She was on course to become the best healer Panem had ever seen.

I turn the pages until I arrive at the next section in her hand. Within the first few lines it is clear these are notes from injuries caused by Thread’s whip. She describes Gale’s condition upon arrival and what issues were the most threatening. She recounts my mother’s care in detailed steps and references which prior pages contain the recipes for the concoctions used.

At the time, seeing the boy I once relied on and sought refuge with so torn to shreds, my mind was filled with nothing but worry and self-loathing. It was my fault. Snow had warned me. I couldn’t see past the overall horror of it all. _You also could only see out of one eye at the time,_ I remind myself _._ Now reading Prim’s precise notes, I’m left with a much less emotional look at what those days were like. I wonder if she was this clear headed when it was happening or if that came after some reflection.

I flip the pages, again looking for the next installment of her handwriting. I find it on two side-by-side pages. On the left, is a salve of some kind that, according to her jottings, she invented to assist in the chaffing Peeta was experiencing with his prosthetic. _How did she know it was hurting?_ I vaguely recollect her begging me, one spring afternoon, to bring her back a bag full of comfrey, complete with its purple bell-shaped flowers and powerful roots. It must have been for this. She was looking to solve a problem I didn’t even know existed.

On the reflecting page, is another recipe adapted from the salve. With many of the same ingredients, Prim was attempting to make a lotion for burns and scarring using her creation for Peeta as a starting place. According to her writings, after the Hob was set on fire she was worried and wanted to be prepared to help the next time something like that occurred. She had the purest heart, generous and kind. Two things I was so grateful could be bestowed to her in my stead. I always wished for her to be all the beautiful things I wasn’t.

I scratch my neck where one of the more uncomfortable scars nags at me. The dried, puckered marks and seams litter my body and constantly remind me they are there by itching or sending phantom burning sensations. Looking at the ingredients, I know many of these are still on the shelves in the study. It doesn’t look too hard to make. If my brilliant baby sister came up with it, I know it will help. I trust her memories more than any doctor alive.

I pluck a leaf and mark the page before closing it. I’ll want to return to this once I’m alone. For now, I interrupt Samson’s strenuous efforts to provide some guidance. He’s focused but too intense in his efforts. Without some intrusion he’ll likely hack the beginnings of the bow into nothing but tinder. Now in its tillering phase, the bow needs lightening in the limbs to find balance between them. It needs to pull evenly and flexibly. The stiffness needs to be shaved off little by little and its equity checked continuously. But by the end of the day, Samson’s hand will grip the beginnings of what will become a beautiful bow.

That night, I find myself clutching the healing journal close as I stare at the wall-to-wall shelves that line the north side of the study. The shelves were built to display hundreds of elegant leather bound books - a display of the Capitol’s supreme intellectualism. Or more likely they wouldn’t even be real books, just colorful pretend ones, beautiful and hollow, useful for nothing but decoration. But in 12, we are limited to our fifteen or so dilapidated books and handwritten accounts. They hardly count as a collection and won’t make a dent in the shelf space. Instead, the ledges are filled with mismatched jars, boxes, and tins. Most are reused receptacles labeled and filled with my mother’s precious supplies with a few exceptions where Capitol-purchased bottles store rarities. From raw herbs, to powders, to tinctures, she’s alphabetized the lot impressively.

There are tools of her trade sharing a lower shelf. Her mortar and pestle, sieves, knives, hand grinder, measuring spoons, and a variety of bowls and small pots are polished and in immaculate condition, evidence of her care. When I returned from the first Games, she spent weeks locked away in the room. I rarely saw her outside of meals. While I was seeking any kind of comfort in my woods, she was here, avoiding her troubled daughter, seeking comfort in her herbs.

On the bottom shelf there are several baskets of clean linens and rolled cloths. Beside them are a large containers of carrier oils, alcohol, salts, and waxes that I ordered for her upon my return, using my Victor funds to try and please her in our new home. My eye is drawn to a strongbox tucked in the farthest corner and seemingly out of place. The bolt is undone and I pull the box off the shelf to investigate.

Lifting its heavy lid, I discover three boxes of delicate vials and a dangerous looking case of needles and syringes. Immediately repelled by the contents but yet drawn by the mystery of their appearance, I close and return the box. Some of those vials are certainly morphling and who knows what kind of miracle drug is in the others. These are not items even I could have simply purchased. They require connections. Connections like Madge’s father had or maybe shadier connections for illegally trading. Either way, under Snow, having this box would have been a hanging offense. Its existence makes me both nervous and proud. There are little rebellions all around me, the marks of a proper Everdeen home.

Looking at my sister’s notes, I select the required ingredients one by one, laying them out on the desk with tools and a shiny mixing bowl at the ready. The malodorous calendula and comfrey root tinctures are overwhelmed by the pleasant aroma of the lavender oil and ground chamomile. Once the aloe and honey are mixed, a lotion takes shape. Prim’s notes don’t leave exact measurements, instead providing recommendations for its texture and color. Looking at the bowl, I’m amazed at how easy and satisfying it was. A problem met with straightforward steps leading to an ultimate solution. It’s a calming thing - uncomplicated, wonderfully uncomplicated.

I transfer the lotion into a jar using my fingers, and then rub what remains on the scars not currently covered by my large sweater. It glides on, soothing the itching defects upon contact. Before bed, I strip down and look at what is left of Katniss Everdeen. The emaciated creature has filled in ever so softly. I’m still gaunt and angular, with flesh savaged by a life filled with hunger and two years of trauma. But a month of consciously eating Sae’s meals and forcing myself to work past the weaknesses of idled muscles, the girl reflected back at me at least begins to look human.

With fingers full of thick lotion, I caress every scar that mars my skin. I remember staring in fascination at the tattooed vines that Cressida had crawling up her neck and head. My scars are just as eye-catching but without the artistry. They are angry and red, licking up my back to leap across my neck and skittering down my arms like a spreading forest fire. I’m fortunate that I can carefully cover most with clothing. Even so, I’ve still caught people surreptitiously staring at my neck when my hair is tied back or at my arms when my sleeves are pushed up. It’s fine. It could have been so much worse. I deserve worse.

As I gently paint each mark in Prim’s lotion, I feel a deep primal connection to my family. It’s like a missing link between the past and the present, between the living and the dead.

I always shied away and let my mother and sister’s close bond thrive together in their pursuits. I stood on the perimeters watching them dazzle, fending off the envy by wrapping myself in my father’s attention. But I’m an apothecary’s daughter as much as a woodman’s. Pa and the Everdeens are with me every time I enter the forest, but my mother, sister, and maybe even the entire Culpeper line, are just as much with me whether mixing herbs in the study or cleaning festering sword wounds on a riverbank.

I still don’t really know who I am, but I think this is an important part of what makes me _me._ I’m not certain of much, but I do know that there is a constant pull to care for those I hold dear, to protect them with my life. Whether with hunting or healing, I’m starting to realize, it makes no difference.


	18. XVIII

CHAPTER XVIII

“I never would have believed that I would someday wish I had a sister to practice braiding hair,” Sam mumbles around the clenched teeth that hold what will eventually be his bowstring. I glance up from the healer’s journal and a gruesome entry about a mining accident amputation to watch Sam tightly twisting fibers with a furrowed brow.

For two days, I tended the garden and read the journal while Samson grunted and sweat with a smile on his face. He finished the stave, carving out a grip and sanding it smooth. He spent yesterday assembling the pieces for a small sheaf of arrows. Today, after showing him how to strip and dampen the sinew and walking him through the fingering of a tight reverse twist, he has the dexterous task of braiding his bow string.

His technique isn’t terrible, but it is slow. I’ve done this many times, both on bow strings and hair, so my fingers fly into motion without much thought. But for him, this is new and his slow pace displays how important it is to him. “Looks good, Sam,” I compliment, and watch his face light up like the sun.

I probably don’t do that enough. Well, for that matter, I don’t speak enough in general either. Sam doesn’t seem to mind my silence, which makes him excellent company, however, it takes such little effort to acknowledge his hard work and applaud his successes. It’s an elite club of kids who would work as hard as he is while maintaining such pleasure.

A half-hour later I hear his crow, “Ha! I did it!” I softly smile as he shoots his fist into the air in victory. However that quickly shifts to a frown when he follows with, “Kat, that means tomorrow you can teach me how to shoot!”

* * *

Late, the following morning, the bow string has been properly stretched and is ready to be strung and sampled.

I’m not ready for this. I honestly thought it would take a couple more days, but Samson worked quickly, with very few errors. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have stopped him from making the mistakes I saw coming. Then, he might have had to start over, and I would have bought more days of delay.

Sae and Ana were aware of my poor mood by the amount of unintelligible grunting that took place over breakfast. On her way out, Sae laughed and gave me a firm slap on the back. “Pull it together, you’re just teaching a kid how to shoot. Everdeens were born ready to grasp a bow. I know you miss it.”

It’s true; I do miss it. Every morning when I check the snares, I am reminded of how much I miss it. Snares were Gale’s specialty, not me. My pa taught me their basics, but I we never set them. Traps are just not the Everdeen way.

> “Everdeen hunters, little bird, must have three things: Respect, Patience, and Humility,” my father’s smoky voice whispers to me. “First, respect what nature has given us. It’s a gift granted not taken, and we have a responsibility to never abuse that privilege. Second, is to remember the best things worth having often require the most patience. And patience requires trust. I waited for a long time to catch your ma, my songbird, but I knew, I trusted, that it was all worth the wait.”
> 
> “And humility?” I ask him.
> 
> “Ah that one’s easy. Is there anything more humbling than standing out here? This great big tree was alive during the Dark Days and it will still be here decades after your own days. We’re just tiny specks in a colossal world, but somehow we are all connected to one another. Our little ripples have the potential to become great waves. Remember that well. Actions and consequences, my moon, actions and consequences.”

Yes, snares really don’t fit any of my father’s three rules. It’s time to go back to my roots, back to the fundamentals. Sam should be barreling through the door at any moment and I want to be ready to teach him not only the skills but the values that my father was sure to instill in me. I need to remember this was a part of who I was long before the Games.

A delicious idea hits me; frankly, it’s a stroke of genius. Two birds, one arrow.

I tuck a hammer and a few nails into my pocket and saunter into the formal dining room. I hate this room, preferring to keep it closed off and eat all my meals at the kitchen table. From the walls to the furniture, this room reeks of the Capitol. I grow tense at how much it reminds me of the tribute apartments.

Worse than the gaudy wallpaper or gilded chairs, there is a painting proudly mounted on the wall that I have detested since the moment we moved in. The focal point of the room is the dramatic oil painting of Tribute chariots charging into City Circle. It even features proud government banners and cheering crowds all encircled by the shimmering gold of the Victor’s crown. It’s impressive how so many things I despise were able to fit into one frame. Everything about it is grotesque.

A vicious smirk alights my face as I stalk towards the portrait _. I’ve got a much better use for you, my pretty_.

Heaving the landscape from the wall takes more strength than expected, but I suppose the painting is loaded with so much bullshit it must come with some weight. Half lifting – half dragging it through the house and out the back door, I perform my own Tribute Parade. The heinous painting clunks down the back steps and into the dirt of the garden. How wonderful to see its ostentatious gold frame caked with mud.

 _Now where shall your new home be?_ I look toward the woods that abut the property. There’s a thick tree to the west that looks promising and would provide plenty of distance to practice.

Sweating already, I heft the painting to the tree, attempting to boost the base up with my knee.

 _Now how are you going to get the hammer and nails out of your pocket, Katniss._ I drop the painting, carelessly. This is not a one-person job.

My silent call is answered, though I immediately regret it.

“What the hell are you doing, sweetheart?” Haymitch shouts from his porch.

He’s been drinking of course, but doesn’t appear as inebriated as I’ve seen of late. As he lumbers across his yard and into mine I pull out the hammer. “Whoa, you didn’t tell me you were armed,” he laughs, “what’s the story here?”

“Need a target for shooting practice,” I explain with as few words as possible.

Haymitch purses his lips, distrusting that I’ve provided the entire explanation. He looks over my shoulder and spots the corner of the massive frame tipped against the tree.

“Is that what I think it is?” He asks as he pushes past me.

The laughter that erupts from him is almost manic. I watch his jaw unhinge, begin sputtering, and then see his entire body double over in full roaring laughs. He wheezes, attempting to catch his breath, but then lifts his eyes to glimpse at the painting, and then bends over in laughter once again. Finally with two large pants through his lips, he wipes at his eyes with his sleeves. “Woo, oh sweetheart, I’ve got to say,” he takes another big sniff in before exhaling a chuckle out, “there are many times where I truly want to kill you, but then there are other times, beautiful times, when you do something like this, when I wonder if you’re not my long lost daughter.”

He’s laughing again, but I’m oddly touched by his sentiment. That’s as close as we’ll ever get to Haymitch telling me he cares about me. If I were to guess, I’d say my cheeks were softly blushing at the unexpected affection.

I move to stand next to him in front of the image. “Just needed a target, huh?”

I smirk and he chuckles again, in response. “I’ve always hated this painting. I’ve got an older version of one shoved somewhere. After the first time I took a torch to it, I was severely warned not to light the second copy on fire.” That doesn’t surprise me one bit. “I should hunt it down and make a matching knife throwing station in my yard.”

“Everything about it is hideous,” I comment and he nods in agreement.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I always thought Snow purposely made it something we’d all hate just to taunt us. So you gonna shoot some arrows at it?”

“Mhmm,” I hum, “Help me mount it?”

With some team effort and a few nails, the cursed painting finds a new home. We back away to properly take in the view.

“Oh that’s a beautiful sight. This might be one of your best ideas, sweetheart. I may start skipping my afternoon naps to watch this monstrosity get torn to smithereens.”

“Watcha’ lookin’ at, Kat? Oh, hey Mr. Abernathy!” Samson shouts as he scurries, bow in hand, through the garden and down to the forest’s edge.

“See for yourself,” I answer upon his arrival. He looks up at the homemade gallery Haymitch and I have arranged. “What’s the ugly painting for?”

Haymitch barks out a laugh at that. “Out of the mouths of babes, I tell ya’.” He leans down to Sam conspiratorially, “Sweetheart here chose her favorite of Snow’s fine art for you to use as a target. Now, look at that,” he whistles through his teeth and reaches out to inspect Sam’s new bow, “that’s quite the weapon you got here.”

I smile softly, pleased he recognizes the quality workmanship. “Thanks, Mr. Abernathy,” Samson caws. “Kat spent the last week showing me how to make it. Last week _this_ was just another tree. Now it’s _my_ bow. _I_ made it – can you believe it?”

His enthusiasm is infectious and even Haymitch can’t help but be charmed by it. His eyes sparkle at the sight of the child, one that could have easily been reaped last summer, displaying such delight. His eyes then turn to me and soften with some kind of significance I can’t place, but I can see his mind working, and I wonder at what may have just clicked in his head.

“It’s a beaut. And you’ve got the best shot in Panem coaching you. Be sure to pay attention; she don’t say much, but there ain’t another person who knows more about how to stay alive.”

Samson nods seriously.

I’m tempted to reach out and embrace Haymitch, but downgrade it to squeezing his arm with all the emotion I have hidden beneath my mask. He’ll understand the meaning and be grateful to avoid the hug.

I tell Samson to stretch while I don my aged leather three-finger glove and retrieve my quiver and yew bow. I wrap a spare wrist guard around Samson's forearm, knowing how much he’ll regret it later if left bare. He pulls out an arrow, ready to start.

“Best put that away for now, Sam,” I warn, “we’ve got some work before we actually shoot.”

He attempts to hide his disappointment, which is sweet in its utter failure. “Let’s start with your stance.” I move in front to show him. “Your shoulder to the target, feet shoulder-width apart. Back is straight and strong. You don’t want to lose your footing, so make sure you’re anchored.” I move to him and nudge a foot and pull his shoulders back. “Better. This is where your body should be every time. Let me see you relax and then find your stance again.”

After a few more minutes repeating the motions, I move to his grip then show him how to position his three fingers to pull the string back. “Good. Now point the bow and grab the string but don’t pull yet.” I watch. “Relax, walk around then do it again.” I catch his pinky and remove it from the string grip.

A half hour later he’s consistently standing properly and holding the bow correctly. That’s more than half the battle. He looks impressive as he draws back the string to the corner of his mouth like I showed him. At the notice of his arms trembling, I recommend a break for lunch.

Three hours later, we’re back at the forest’s edge wrapping up for the day.

“I think you’re ready for an arrow.”

“Really, you think?” His grin falters, “Can you show me first?”

I suppose the moment has come; yet somehow, I don’t feel the anxiety I did a month ago. Maybe it was spending the day with a bow in my hand teaching, but it finally feels natural in my palm once more. That feeling of it being an organic extension of my own limbs has returned and I don’t have the slightest urge to whisper ‘goodnight’. “Only if you watch carefully.”

I step forward, my body automatically finding its stance like a magnetic force. With a breath, I draw the bow back, aiming at the painting in the distance. At its center is the dais where I know a miniature Cornelius Snow is depicted - the puppet master at work. I release the string and watch the arrow fly.

Its aim is true and I feel a tiny bubble of joy from deep within. _That felt good._

* * *

For the following three days, Samson and I shoot at the ugly painting. Every so often, Haymitch will join us, watching from his porch and cheering ‘huzzahs’ whenever there’s an exceptionally satisfying hit. On the second day, I move Samson closer to the target so he isn’t discouraged by the constant misses, but by the end of the third afternoon, I’ve slowly moved him back to the starting distance without him realizing and he still hits the canvas.

“If you keep this up, by next week, we’ll head out into the woods,” I tell him, a reward for all his hard work and his inadvertent assistance in resolving my own bow-related issues.

“That’d be amazing, Kat,” he smiles up at me. “It’d be awesome if I could be good enough to go out and try it for real.”

As we return to the back porch, I notice an unexpected figure leaning against the railing next to Sae. From the masculine figure, I notice a smaller one perched in his arms lifting a little arm and waving it at us enthusiastically. Ana wiggles out of what I can now perceive is Thom’s arms and bounds down to greet us. With a fistful of sweater, she pulls me up to the porch to join the conversation.

“Hello Katniss,” Thom greets warmly, sure to make contact with his gentle eyes, before turning to Sam and exclaiming, “and well done Samson! That was quite a sight. Sae here says you only started this week but I’m sure she must be playing me the fool.”

“No sir, Miss Sae’s not lying,” Sam answers respectfully, “Today is my fourth day learning.”

“In that case, you’ll be bringing us home dinner in no time. Must be some special teacher you’ve got there,” Thom teases.

“Yes, our Katniss is a gem.” Sae hands me a cold glass, “Here’s some lemonade for you, child. Come on, Samson, I think you earned a snack.”

I glance between Sae and Thom and realize she has arranged a private meeting. I try to push down the disquiet I automatically feel. This is Thom; I know he’s not a threat. With a purposeful attempt to show a casual mien, I sit down on the back steps and gesture for Thom to begin whatever it is he’s prepared.

“I feel I should tell you about what’s on the horizon for the rebuild.”

I raise my eyebrows but nothing more. He sighs out a chuckle. “Never one to make it easy, are you?

“We’ve given updates to Sae to pass on to you before, but we should have spoken directly all along. You deserve to know what’s going on from the source, not some messenger. Anyway, better late than never, and this week we’re in for some big changes. Have you been through the district in the past week?”

I shake my head to the negative. The closest I’ve been is the route to the train depot a couple weeks past.

“It’s a new world out there now. Every day my mind is blown to see the amount they can get done with the tech that the government has sent down. They had all that fancy equipment laying around to build the next Arena.”

That’s true. They built a new arena every year. So much waste. Thinking about the cost and time invested in creating such a terrible place is nauseating. The Games led to 12’s destruction, so there’s a sense of justice to using their best technology to rebuild it.

“Those that died have been buried in the Meadow, and almost a quarter of the new district plot has been cleared and is ready for construction. Don’t go near the mines though because that’s where the rubble has been temporarily relocated.”

“What do you want to warn me about?” I wonder. The previous nights, I haven’t snuck over to listen in on any of their meetings. Has there been some change I should be worried about?

“On Sunday, we’re getting another train full of crew. With the exception of a few traveling with family members who will be assisting Sae with the increased cooking demands over in another Victor house, they’ll be living in the unit outside the village and shouldn’t be in your business.”

Thom asks to join me on my step to which I assent. “The crews know it is in their best interest to keep their distance and they all have a lot of respect for you, you should know that. They are curious though. You must have some idea, Katniss, you’ve become almost mythic.”

My whole body stiffens at that. I don’t want that. Make them stop. I’m just Katniss.

“I know, I know, but I felt you should know what to expect. And I think you can handle curiosity, as long as they’re not intrusive or angry, right?” I focus my eyes to the horizon, where a red and gold sun is setting, and finally nod. Yes, I couldn’t expect any less could I? I’d be lucky for only curiosity.

“There’s something else. What is it?” I ask when I notice him rubbing his palms.

“There’re a lot of questions coming from the higher ups wanting to know about how you are doing. Know that we try to push them off best we can so you keep some privacy. In this district, you’ve got a lot more on your side than just Sae, Haymitch, and Samson. Between Plutarch or you, the lot of us don’t have any worries about covering you at his expense.”

I offer him a small smile in thanks.

“That said, I have a feeling we’ll eventually be getting some less-than-welcome visitors. I doubt we’ll see them before June, but I wanted to warn you that Haymitch might start getting calls. You have any questions for me?”

I’m quiet for a few moments, wondering if I dare ask. I look at Thom and decide to trust him.

“Um,” I begin, barely above a whisper and with discomfort surely written across my face. “Do I have to worry about Gale coming here?” Thom furrows his brow looking surprised that I’d voice unease at the idea of being in my former partner’s presence. He catches himself and jumps in to reply.

“Gale’s now got himself quite the position with the new government. He’s been assigning his toadies to come out to us. I thought he might have been showing off his importance, but now I wonder if he is actually avoiding coming here. Do you… Katniss I never want to pry so feel free to tell me to shut it… but do you not want him here? If so, we can watch your back.”

I really don’t want to go into this with Thom or anyone, but the benefit of having an early warning of any invasion is too tempting. “Gale doesn’t belong in 12 anymore. He made his choices. I said my goodbyes to him before the execution. Some things should stay in the past where they belong.”

I don’t want to look into my former friend’s eyes and see those bombs being played in my head on repeat. I don’t want to feel like I owe him affections I’m not able to give. I don’t want to feel judged for how I manage my grief. And I don’t want to clash over our opposing views. I want to preserve my pre-Games memory of Gale, our perfect fraternity. Like a jar of strawberry preserves, I’ll treasure its sweetness long past when it would have otherwise gone rotten. I dread how it could all be spoiled if we don’t accept that things are different now, we are different now.

Thom watches my expressions and some vague comprehension and thoughtful agreement flits across his own face.

“We’ll keep our ears open and I’ll be better about letting you know what’s going on.”

As we finish our goodbyes and he begins to walk away, I remember something important.

“Oh, and Thom?” He turns around. “Please tell Colton to fill his dreams with something other than my gardening habits.”

I smirk as I walk away, Thom still figuring out how to pick his jaw off the ground.


	19. CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XIX

“Oh, Katniss, darling, how wonderful it is to hear your voice.” Effie doesn’t sound as exuberant as per her usual, however her gentler disposition isn’t unwelcome. “We’ve been busy bees over here.”

“You both are well?” I ask.

“Both of us are right as rain. Peeta is currently resting in the other room but he is doing much better. Last week we consulted with a few friends I called in, and then had his doctors alter his medication. He said he’s already feeling more like himself. The poor dear’s emotions still go up and down, and if he gets too upset or confused we’ll give him a gentle sedative, but at least he’s not being kept near-comatose all day.

“I’m giving him little projects and he seems to enjoy them. He’s become a delightful assistant. I can’t imagine how bored he’s been. Everything here was utterly _beige_. I’ve given some rules to those so-called doctors, so now they can’t act as if they have carte blanche. Our boy is long overdue for some maternal care, and I am so thankful you called me to provide it.”

“You were the only person for the job, Effie.”

“Oh, darling girl,” she cries then attempts to hold in her emotion. “Now, don’t go distracting me with such pretty compliments. What else, what else? Oh, I made a few calls to get some of the raw footage from your propos. Peeta has been eager to see them and the doctors were dragging their heels. I don’t think those buffoons even asked Beetee. Anyway, they’ll be delivered tomorrow, so he can start watching. I might bring in someone to help fill in the blanks, maybe one of your prep team? I know he’s always liked them.”

That isn’t a terrible idea. They weren’t present for any of his worst experiences but they were on the periphery of what took place in 13 and were privy to most of my activity. They are a bit ridiculous, but if we are also fighting his boredom, they will certainly liven the place up.

“Are the doctors helping him or do we need to get him out of there?” This has been the question most on my mind. I shouldn’t let my own bias to doctors affect Peeta’s care, but I can’t help it.

“Now that we’ve taken back some control of the situation, I think this is tolerable. They are doing a lovely job monitoring him and they provide excellent security. Peeta says that when he leaves here, he wants his next stop to be home. We both agree he needs more time and I reminded him 12 needs more time as well to clean itself up. I’m sure it’s still terribly dusty, no?” _Dusty is an understatement,_ I think.

“He does need some familiarity though, so I have a little job for you, darling. Nothing here belongs to him. I, of course, offered to go shopping, I thought we would have delightful time, but he told me he wants something that would remind him of home. Isn’t that charming?”

Oh Peeta, of course: unfamiliar people, unfamiliar clothing, unfamiliar furniture, unfamiliar everything. Since the Quell, he hasn’t had a single thing from his life as Peeta Mellark, the baker’s son. I feel spoiled with my own luxury. I had my father’s jacket, my pearl, even that stupid cat. I clung to the rafts of the familiar while I was forced to travel through foreign seas and never considered sharing that with others. _Was I always so selfish?_

“You want me to send something? I can get into his house if that’s what he wants.” I have to help. The guilt is tugging at my heart and I have to make some effort to lighten its weight.

“I was thinking the same thing. His memory is still not the best so I would choose a bit of this and that. I mean, you of course know him best, my dear.”

 _Do I? The best?_ The truth hits me: _yes, Katniss, you’re the only one still alive who can claim that title._ What a sorry state of affairs.

We toss around a few ideas and I hang up, pleased to have a task. It’s another little thing to fill my day. But this is a little thing I can do to make his life a little brighter. I’ve so rarely been able to offer that.

So after another afternoon of target practice, the following day I slip back into the desolation of Peeta’s house. If he returns, we’ll have to do something to make this place less dreary. I’ve appropriated a crate from a recent delivery that should allow enough space for whatever I find.

I can tell the living room, study, and dining room will all prove fruitless. I don’t think he ever used them. But I trust the kitchen will have more success. Walking in, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Peeta’s kitchen should be filled with pleasant scents, overwhelming flavors of all the foods I only used to dream of smelling let alone eating. Where are the sweet smells of fresh cakes and pies, the sensuous notes of cinnamon and clove? After many months of its master’s absence, this room is just a normal room, all lovely wafting aromas long gone.

His kitchen is stocked with gadgets and odd devices. Some show their age, perhaps from his youth of working in the bakery, whereas others are shiny and new. Those must have been gifts to himself from his Victor’s winnings. There’s a well-worn apron hanging from a hook in the corner, a plain piece of lightly stained white fabric with fraying strings. It’s the kind of item that you can immediately tell has been thoroughly cherished. Picking it up, I can feel the remnants of the fine flour under my thumbs. I fold it and place it in the crate.

I spy a stately spice rack on the corner. Its carousel spins to display the wide variety it stores. I pull out the three jars that look the emptiest and add it to the crate. I don’t know much about fancy seasonings, but if I was Peeta, the most used spices would be the most loved.

I pick up the crate and proceed upstairs. The previously unexplored bedrooms look untouched by Peeta so I head to the room filled with canvases. I still won’t look at any of the paintings, but there is a shelf with speckled brushes that I’ll include. From the bathroom, I grab his toothbrush and a few half-used bottles thinking the scents might be comforting, and then walk to his bedroom.

Here is where I feel most like an intruder, a little girl snooping about his space. I try to keep a boundary and not cross the line of satisfying my nosiness over helping him. I recall the empty chipped mug and sketchpad on the bedside table and immediately place both into the crate without inspection. I’m sentimental about my tea mugs. I have a favorite, and maybe he’ll feel the same. When I return home, I’ll put a bag of some of our District 12 foraged tea and maybe, feeling inspired, some garden-grown peppermint tea I think he’ll enjoy. Tastes of home.

A chest of drawers stands against the wall. I pull out a few baby soft shirts, some comfortable pants, and warm sweaters I struggle not to keep for myself. I avoid harsh tones and the beiges Effie warned me of, instead choosing warm colors that remind me of autumn leaves, his sunset colors. Then, thinking of his eyes, sneak in a few the color of the ocean. I top it off by snagging the velvet slippers arranged neatly next to the bed.

As I close the drawers, my eyes catch a beautifully handcrafted wooden box atop the dresser. It’s open, inviting me to peek into its overflowing contents. He’s filled the box like a thieving magpie with precious finds: a shiny button, a preserved oak leaf, lost feathers, coins, tiny red and yellow gems, a pair of cuff links, and hauntingly, the flattened yellow head of a dandelion. Folded in a handkerchief, however, are two items that cause my heart to flutter. Hidden inside is a black and gold coiled wire clip that I swear is from my first chariot headdress and next to it a dark wavy lock of hair tied with a worn red ribbon. I reach for my braid. My hair. Definitely mine.

A close the lid quickly and put it in the crate before I am tempted to keep studying it. Sweet and gentle Peeta, _how long have you been collecting these treasures?_

I imagine little, chubby Peeta Mellark relishing in a lost button or tumbling ribbon, squirreling it away like prize. I imagine a smiling, fifteen-year-old Peeta Mellark saving every coin to buy something special at the mercantile. And I imagine a broken-hearted Peeta Mellark, stealing away one of my tresses as he watches me sleep, chasing away my nightmares as our train speeds into the night. He was far too tender for the life he’d been handed.

I sit on the bed and close my eyes. The clock ticks away the seconds. How many nights did he lie awake in this empty house, unable to sleep, listening to that clock tick by? It is soothing in a way. Maybe some would find it morose, but the reminder that life continues on second by second seems to touch me. I am one of the lucky ones; I’m alive to hear it. With an odd impulse, I pull the ticking clock from the wall, place it in the crate, and return home.

Late that night I add a letter sharing the current news in 12, my comfort in hearing Effie’s updates, and a promise that I tried to respect his privacy as I collected the items included and that I hope I chose well. By the next afternoon, the sealed crate is on a train headed towards the Capitol.

* * *

The new crews arrive and construction begins while I continue to have target practice with Samson, tend the garden with Ana, and read the family journals. I continue to take it one day at a time.

Eventually, Sam is strong enough to move into the woods. With our efforts, my opinions have changed so completely and I am eager to take down snares and rely on the bows to keep Sae well stocked. After spending the morning checking then taking down most of the snares, I warm up alone. I bring in half a dozen brazen squirrels, five straight through the eye like my father taught me. In the quiet of the morning, for a moment, I feel fifteen again. It’s just me and my bow.

For our first day in the woods, Sam and I practice silence and don’t shoot a thing. On the second, I let him try, knowing full well he’ll miss his shots. Give him a week and I think he’ll get close. When I can, I take a shot and have him watch, mostly to guarantee the game for Sae. He’s seen me process the game from the snares, but I start having him participate. The butchering is not for the squeamish, but it’s good to get accustomed to it while young.

We spend the next two days tracking a herd of deer. It’s mostly an exercise but I haven’t had venison in years. If we succeed, this would be the fourth deer in all my years of hunting. It required the strength of a partner and such supreme efforts of covertness it was hardly worth the risk. But the few times I did, our bellies and our pockets felt unimaginably full. Sam and I would only be able to carry a young buck, which is too much of a waste, but we could get something larger if we send for some of our locals to do the heavy lifting.

Right at the start of Sam’s sixth day, he comes across what might be the ugliest woodchuck I’ve ever seen, but it’s a lazy beast and he finally has his first success. His pride was quickly surpassed when several days later our herd brazenly wanders into our hideout. I had previously explained to him which ones to target and which to avoid, so when I silently gesture to a midsize buck standing apart from the does and youths, he knows that’s his mark. I take aim at a larger buck with a massive rack of antlers. I gesture a countdown, knowing we’ll need to fire together. Gale and I got to a point where a blink or a breath was all that was needed, but for now my hand cues are enough. We fire.

I know mine lands without looking. I had a clear view of its broadside and enough control to know it hit its vitals. So without hesitation, I knock a second arrow and turn in time to see Sam’s arrow strike the buck near its hind legs. It is a shot that will take him down in time but he’ll suffer for a long while.

My mind goes to Cato at the Cornucopia. _Mercy, someone to deliver mercy._ The herd scatters; I give a nod of approval to Sam, and release the second arrow to finish it off before it attempts to follow its mates. We check both animals to ensure they are at rest, thanking them for their sacrifice. I look to Samson, his face glowing with pride and his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“You okay?”

He gasps out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I promise. That was just… that was incredible, Kat. They’re huge, I didn’t expect that they’d be so much bigger than me. A month ago, I would have hidden from them. And they’ll feed so many. It’s got to be more meat than a hundred squirrels. And we did it. With just some sticks and strings and –“

His adrenaline is pumping and his mouth is running away with him. “I’m proud of you, Sam. You’ve learned faster than I expected. Now sit down on that log and take a few breaths. Don’t want you getting dizzy when I send you into town to find some folks to carry these back to the Village.”

On his buck, I talk him through the process of field dressing, temporarily sparing him the unpleasant task of doing it himself, then send him on his way to collect some muscle. While he’s gone, I work on the second, then prop them open to keep air circulating while I drag two branches to bind them to for carrying. Knowing it will take at least another forty minutes, I climb up a tree to enjoy a better view.

By the sun placement, it’s an hour or two past noon. By its grumbling, my stomach confirms that belief. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. From my branch, I can make out the mountains in the distance. I always wondered if they were as far away as they seemed. There is a crisp breeze today that feels heavenly blowing across my face. The small flyaway hairs that have escaped my braid tickle my skin like spring foliage.

The forest hushes to listen to a nearby chorus of birds. They chatter and trill discordantly. It reminds me of my father who loved to hush the birds with our songs. They’d listen reverently then take possession of the melody once we were done. Briefly, they would sing together in unity before again separating into different conversations. However, days later, you could still hear small pieces of our song being carried all over the district.

After he died, I remember sitting in the meadow listening desperately for any bit of bird song that might have still carried my father’s tune. An echo of him still here with me. But the birds were silent.

_"There shall I visit the place of my birth_

_And they'll give me a welcome the warmest on earth_

_All so loving and kind full of music and mirth,_

_In the sweet sounding language of home._

_There shall I gaze on the mountains again,_

_On the fields and the woods and the burns and the glens,_

_Away among corries beyond women and men_

_In the haunts of the deer I will roam_

_Oh, oh soon shall I see them;_

_Oh, oh see them oh see them._

_Oh, oh soon shall I see them_

_The mist covered mountains of home." *_

When I finish, for a breath, maybe two, there is nothing but silence. Then one, two, twenty mockingjays pick up the melody. I smile at their enthusiasm. I wonder if they’ve been lonely.

After some time, I hear the loud rustling of approaching men who clearly don’t know how to correctly walk through the woods. I suppose we don’t need to worry about scaring the game away. I see Sam moving quickly with Thom, Colton, and a man I don’t recognize.

“Kat! We’re back! You won’t believe what we heard on our way here! Where are you?” Well Sam is obviously excited. I climb down the tree to meet them.

“Oh! Ha! I should have kept an eye on the trees. When I didn’t see you, I was worried I got turned around. I was able to find Mr. Thom and Mr. Colton and, I hope you don’t mind, but I kinda grabbed my dad too. I really wanted to show him. Is that okay?”

I swallow my mild anxiety. This is Sam’s father. Family is safe. And he’s in my woods. And I’m armed. I nod. “I know you’re excited. And it looks much more impressive now than it will later.” I greet the familiar faces, “Thom, Colton,” then turn to the elder gentleman, “Um, hello, I’m Katniss.”

The towering man has similar coloring and face shape to Sam’s, but lacks the dusting of freckles across his cheeks that I adore. He has a faint scar across his shadowed jaw line and a dazzling smile on his face.

“Miss Everdeen, I’m Abe, Samson’s dad. I can never thank you enough for the change you’ve made in my boy. I nearly wept when I saw him running up to get us with the biggest smile on his face. I wasn’t going to be of any good working once I saw it.”

I look down, uncomfortable by the compliments. I decide to change topics. “Go on then, Sam. I know you’re anxious to show them off.”

He grabs his father’s hand then tugs him over to the trees where the two bucks lay. A chorus of shock and awe rises from each man and then is followed by a gasp as Abe lifts his son into his arms, squeezing tight. He mumbles something into his ear, words of encouragement or pride perhaps. Suddenly we are intruding on a very private moment between father and son. It makes me long fiercely for my own father.

I gesture to Thom and Colton to help me tie the bucks’ legs onto the two long branches for carrying. As I knot the first pair, Colton looks at me seriously. “You’re amazing, you know that?” I bite my lip and keep my head down. “It’s just a couple good shots,” I mumble shyly.

He huffs, “We both know that’s not the truth. But I wasn’t referring to these two feats, I was talking about that one.” I follow his finger as it points to the father and son now talking softly to each other forehead to forehead. My heart aches at the sight. I think about Thom and Colton and the tender looks on their faces, and remember that they are as much orphans as I am.

As we finish binding, the two rejoin us and his father clutches my hand with emotion, kissing the back of it fervently whispering, “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.” I meet his eyes and nod in earnest.

We lift the branches onto our shoulders and head toward Victors Village. Sam provides a dramatic recap of the day’s activity as we walk. About midway through the journey, bird song seems to surround us. He interrupts his tale to ask, “There it is again! Kat, what’s with the birds today? That song is everywhere.”

If my face wasn’t already red from exertion, it would be now. Thom is the one who catches my embarrassment. “They’re singing because of you, aren’t they? I remember Peeta telling that story about the birds but I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

I grumble a bit, “They're enthusiastic today.” They all laugh at my peevishness. Colton comments, “You think they’d listen to my singing, Katniss? When I get a few drinks in me, I’ve got quite the voice.”

The rest of the walk passes quickly, filled with playful banter and Colt's dreadful yodeling. As we enter the Village exiting the thick wall of trees, I see Sae gleefully standing in the middle of the street on lookout, Ana close by her side.

“I heard and I just had to see it with my own eyes! Have you ever seen such a sight? Child, you have outdone yourself. How do you feel about butcherin’ it behind your house? Should let you keep a little privacy. Samson, head to the porch and bring down the crates I’ve set out. They’ll make for a decent work table in a pinch.”

She leads the way into the backyard and down to the tree line where the target is mounted. I explain to the tiring men, “We need to hang the deer from a tree limb. It’s the easiest way to skin the hide and remove the meat.” I question the strength of their stomachs for this next part, so we suspend the bucks from a limb, get something to eat and drink, and send the men off to return to their crews. Sam wants to see the entire process through and Sae has offered to help until she needs to return to her kitchen.

Slipping my sharpest knife's point under the skin, I begin to work. It’s the same as any other animal I handle daily, just larger and with a coat you want to keep as intact as possible. I explain to Sam the order as I go while Sae and Ana bring down a variety of containers. As I remove the meat, we’ll separate it out into the prime cuts, the decent cuts, and the useful but unappetizing other pieces. In leu of Rooba, Sae offers her best advice as we work our way through from shank to rump.

Looking at the sky, I know Sae will have to start dinner soon. Thankfully she sends for Haymitch to take over trimming. He might as well make good use of those knife skills. When I hand her the filets she’s been eying covetously I swear she is near tears. She’ll make something special tonight and Sam will bask in the celebration of his biggest success yet.

As the sun sets, my Mentor and I find a satisfying use for our weapons. We stand side-by-side, knives in a silent choreography. The only sound around us is a piece of a misty mountain melody sung from the treetops.

* * *

_* The Mist-Covered Mountains of Home by or Chì mi na mòrbheanna by John Cameron_


	20. CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XX

“Katniss, you beautiful girl, you have outdone yourself!” Effie’s delight reaches out through the telephone receiver. “The box arrived?”

“My dear, did it ever! It arrived yesterday, and there have been such positive developments since it came that I had to wait to give you a full and glowing report.” “Positive developments?” My ears perk that hopeful phrase.

“Yes, yes, so positive! Peeta has been joyous since your box arrived. Well, sometimes he is quiet and contemplative, but oh how he smiles now - such a handsome boy. It’s like you delivered him a box of sunshine. How ever did you come up with such items? I didn’t understand many of them, but your Peeta sure did. Who knew a dirty old apron could make someone so happy.”

A place deep in my chest feels warm. Happy. I made him happy.

I made him smile.

“He’s been thoroughly energized by the experience. I’ll have to watch that he doesn’t work too hard, but for now he is thriving and oh so motivated. You and I Katniss, we make quite the pair. I always knew we would!”

She shares some stories from the past week, commenting on Peeta’s progress, her opinions of the staff, and the juiciest gossip she’s heard of late. Octavia visited earlier in the week to help Peeta understand what happened after the Quell. According to Effie, he was still in the dark about most of what was going on. Octavia not only spent the day answering questions about 13 and life as the Mockingjay, but she cleaned up Peeta and Effie’s “ghastly overworked nails” and delighted Peeta by smuggling in a pocketful of her newly adopted baby mice to play with. She promised to return soon with Venia and Flavius in tow.

Octavia was a good choice. She’s a gentle soul like Peeta. She also paid close attention to the dynamics of 13 and stuck close to me after I pulled her and the others from Coin’s disgusting prison cell. Venia could offer a less emotional perspective should Peeta have more questions. Flavius... well Flavius could offer cheeky comments and an impressive haircut.

* * *

The feast Sae prepared from the venison filets inspired what was likely the first celebration of the reviving District 12. With work crews now somewhere shy of two hundred, the meat was in small portions so Sae wisely mixed in plenty of hearty sides, but the men gladly savored the opportunity to sample a quality of cut very few had ever seen. Even from my backyard, the revelry could be heard late into the evening.

The next week, I continued to take Samson out after breakfast. Whatever we bagged we’d offer fresh to Sae then store away the rest in the freezer of one of the empty Victor’s mansions. It’s ] easy to climb in through the windows and the freezers were just begging to be put to good use. Sam always wanted to be out longer, a feeling I could sympathize with, however there was more to do than just shoot.

When I wasn’t suggesting he improve his arm strength and accuracy at the target, I was showing him how to save the antlers, sinew, and hide. I’ve never been able to waste any usable piece of game. There have been too many years of clinging to every scrap I could get my hands on to provide for the family. He’d seen me do some quick handling with rabbit pelts and the like, but to save something as valuable as buckhide, more effort and care is required. I explain the Everdeen family’s “S” process and we slowly pass the days scraping, salting, soaking, slurrying, stretching, softening, and, finally, smoking.

With the garden starting to thrive, I found myself wanting to spend time in it daily. The heart of spring is approaching, and life is sprouting all around us. The quiet task feels like a balm to the troubled thoughts and residual nightmares. I take special care of the wildflower row that I privately dedicated to Prim, somehow feeling closer to her. I even found myself asking Sae to place another order to prepare for the summer.

With some shock, I realized that I was starting to think of the future. It wasn’t a distant future, not any more than a month, but it was much more than living day-to-day or worse, when I wasn’t really living at all. _What has changed?_ I try to think, but nothing is really that different. My little daily activities now require more time, more commitment. I wake up and despite how miserable I may feel or how strong that emptiness might ache in my chest, I know something is depending on me. A wild garden or an eager 12-year old or Sae’s empty skillet, I put my broken pieces back together for them.

From my occasional eavesdropping and Thom’s updates, the construction is on schedule. The crews are enjoying the work and are happy to be in 12. He says that all the crews are proud to be putting our district back together and many have already asked about settling permanently. He joked that it likely is the effect of Sae’s fine cooking. _Who’d ever want to leave that?_ Sae has several crew wives and family members now helping her with meals who also shower little Ana with attention. Her house also plays host to a parade of forgettable government representatives as they come in and out to consult.

Beginning at eight, the sound of machinery echoes through the district. Trains and hovercrafts arrive and depart on a regular basis. In only a couple of weeks, several structures have already been erected and the foundations laid for the first block of residences. Some of the crews continue cleanup away from the build sites while others are dedicated to connecting the power and water systems. It’s a luxury for homes in 12, one I never imagined before moving into Victors Village. I have overheard that it is a simple process that was kept from District 12 solely because of Snow’s desire to have us in difficult circumstances. The less basic human needs you have met, the less trouble you’ll cause. You won’t fight the government if you’re too busy fighting to stay warm and clean. A theory that worked for decades, until it didn’t; until it was too much to bear and the only choice was to turn our pain towards its source, the Capitol.

I don’t attempt to visit the progress; the updates are enough for me. It will be disorienting to see all that I have known so well made completely new. It is the proper course for things, but I will avoid it for as long as I can. The Village and the woods provide more than enough for me.

After a wild impulse born from a surprising discovery, I send a spent Sam home early for the day. During this morning’s trek into the woods, we decided to veer off our usual paths to explore. Along the way we stumbled across three beautiful saplings. I was drawn in by their reddish-brown bark and white 5-petal flowers but felt a thrill when I caught sight of the clusters of pale green orbs dangling from its stems. Though they looked like grapes, I was certain we had stumbled across plum trees. I convinced Samson to help me transplant the small trees to the yard. With some digging, dragging, and carting, the bundled saplings made it to the back garden. It was an exhausting task, so before Sam leaves, I slip him a handful of hard candies as a reward for his labors.

We are on the cusp of May so the afternoon is warm and sunny. Now alone in the garden, I can pull off my sweater to work in my tank. My scars are improving with Prim’s lotions, but they will always be there.

I want to replant the trees immediately and, in an area that gets plenty of sunlight, start digging three holes twice the size of the root balls. Sweat forms quickly but fortunately it isn’t the height of summer yet. I use my body weight to push the first tree into the hole then position the second to do the same. As I approach the third, my ears catch the sound of deep-voiced shouts far in the distance. I pull off my gloves and still myself to try and better distinguish them when I hear Sam’s voice join in, hysterically yelling my name. On instinct and adrenaline, I grab my bow and sheath and run towards the approaching voice.

“Katniss! Katniss, quick!" Sam meets me, terror written across his face.

"Something attacked! Over by the cabin! I heard the yelling and some huge, I don’t know, a roar or something! It sounded like there was fighting. I went to look but Sae grabbed me and told me to run here.”

_What_? Roaring. That can’t be right. I grab his shoulders. “An animal? You’re sure?”

His whole body is shaking, “I don’t know! I don’t know! It must be. No way it was human.”

I try to think through the barrage of unbelievable information in a matter of milliseconds. A pack of wild dogs maybe, a feral bobcat perhaps.

At the end of the street near the gates I see Sae on her front porch. “Listen to me, Sam. Get Haymitch. Stay with him then go to Sae’s. Unless you’re with him stay inside,” he stares at me. “Go!”

I run down the Village avenue towards the violent sounds of shouts and clattering. My body is alert and my bow at the ready. This familiar edge, the pounding energy from adrenaline, floods my body like an old friend taking control.

Sae shouts from her steps, “It’s comin’ from the back of the cabin.”

I stay in motion, arrow knocked, and adjust my direction to the forest side of the cabin. The shouts of what might be two men are full of fear. Then I hear it, the _roar_ , as that is exactly what it sounds like. That is no cougar or coyote. I slow my pace and stalk into unknown territory, still shocked at what I’m becoming increasingly certain I am about to encounter

A massive clang startles me unexpectedly. A terrified cry follows. I follow the noise to its source, a metal container the size of a small train car ten yards away. I move closer and amid the yells and cries I hear the sound of furious growls and snorts.

Before me are two young men. One is supine and unconscious, his white shirt quickly becoming red, and the second is clutching a large metal pole extended as a weapon pointed at his attacker. The entire area is upturned with broken and scattered items strewn about. It takes every bit of self-control not to gasp.

The last time I faced such an animal I was young and stupid and dead set on bringing some honey home for Prim. But that creature was nothing, a mere toy, something almost playful compared to this one.

The bear before me is larger than I thought was possible without mutation. Watching it pop its jaws and swat the ground with its enormous front paws, it must be over 500 pounds - 500 hundred presently infuriated pounds. The man appears to be doing all of the worst things possible to deescalate the situation. Each of his actions the bear interprets as a threat, however the man is simultaneously cowering and showing his weakness. If you ignore the metal weapon, he looks an awful lot like foolish prey.

My heart stops as the black predator rears back and stands on his hind legs. His body towers around seven feet or more, as he let out a bone-rattling roar. It’s a sound I will never forget.

It is hard to not freeze at such a magnificent sight, but I recognize immediately that this is my best if not only chance. He’s posturing and opening up his vitals for a clear shot. He needs to go down quickly, a bear that size could likely rampage for a long time if only injured. I can only guess where the heart and lungs are located and I decide that I’ll just fire as many as I can as quickly as possible.

I double load the bow, aim, and release the pair of arrows then reload twice in immediate succession. Two hit his upper chest cavity, the third into his shoulder joint, and the fourth a lower leg. He stumbles onto his back from the force and is attempting to stand to run but his front leg won’t hold. He falters about as his energy wanes.

I run into the area and shout at the man still frozen in shock, “Move, now!” He drops the metal and runs to his fallen friend’s side. I fire two more shots hoping to end the suffering.

Such a beautiful creature should be safely prowling the mountains not felled by my arrows in the middle of the district. He no longer moves but I won’t risk getting anywhere near until I am without a doubt sure it is dead.

I lower my weapon and take in the scene. I notice the dents and claw marks on the large metal container, food scraps littered about. I become aware of the faint smell of spoiling rubbish and clarity hits.

The man is hunched over the inert one, timorously pulling at the tattered cloths looking for the source of the injuries. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s looking for, just frightened for his friend’s life.

Thom and the man I recognize as Max, barrel into the clearing from the other end of the cabin. They run towards us not even noticing the goliath bear on the ground directly in their path.

“Stop!” I shout.

Max’s eyes widen and he snags Thom by the back of his jacket before he can step closer.

“Holy hell!”

“Thom, keep people out of here. I’m not sure it’s completely dead yet." I yell out, then catching sight of the amount of blood add, "We need a doctor."

I take another glance to confirm the bear is still unmoving, and then kneel next to the sobbing man. He looks at me with a thousand questions in his eyes and not a single one in his mouth. His hands flutter across his partner’s face and chest not knowing what to do. I find a pulse and can see the shallowest of breathing, “He’s still alive.” I say it both for my own comfort as well as my companion’s. I scan his torso and neck and don’t see an open wound, but by the state of his ruined shirt and the blood soaked grass, they’ll be much more to see once we turn him over.

I think about everything I know - from years of watching my mother, from the Games, the war, and the journal.

“Give me your shirt,” I demand. I’ll need something to staunch the blood and my small tank is out of the question. My tone must not garner any discussion on the topic because he yanks it over his head without pause. I take the garment and we turn the body over.

An involuntary hiss, escapes through my teeth at the sight. The wound stretches across his shoulders and down the back of his arm: one long, angry claw mark. The bloody slashes pull me back to Gale being flayed at the whipping post. I push past the darkness and use the shirt to start applying pressure to the wound. My hands aren’t large enough to cover its entirety and with a huff I grab the other man’s hands and push them down on the over half of the injury.

Max hurries to my side, approaching from the long way around. “How bad is it?”

“Claw marks, I’d guess the bear took a swipe and he curled away. It’s deep. A lot of blood loss, but we might be lucky. I don’t think anything vital was hit. Where can we move him for your medic?”

“Miss Everdeen, we’ve got first aid medics, but no doctors. They travel with med kits and have experience with tourniquets or gunshot wounds from the war but nothing like this.”

This many men and only basic aid, how did that happen? But war wounds can’t be so different, right? I know the cuts need to be cleaned and stitched closed. We need clean water, maybe some ice, sterile cloths, something to kill whatever might have transferred from the bear’s claws. He’ll need something for the pain, too.

“A room in the dormitory can be found but the supplies are limited to the kits they carry. Thom’s sent for one of the aids, they were all out with the construction crews.”

“Too long,” I mumble. To get there and back could be another half hour. What would my mother do?

_You’ve got a fully stocked apothecary at your house, Katniss. Stop being a coward and take them there._

“Give me your shirt,” I demand of the brawny Sergeant Major. He promptly consents.

I should be concerned with how good I’ve apparently gotten at demanding unknown men to strip.

I pull my spare knife from my boot and rip the shirt into strips. “My mother is a healer. I still have her supplies.” I wrap and tightly bind the strips wherever I can find a point to anchor them. My eyes scan the area again.

“Ladder,” I point to the side of the building where one is tipped. He moves to retrieve it without hesitation and runs back with it.

“Keep the pressure. Don’t be gentle,” I remind my silent assistant as I push up to stand. There’s a tarp under some debris and I drag it over and spread it over the length of the ladder.

“We’ll move him to my place and your aids can meet us there.”

Max looks at me, checking to see if I’m serious, then firmly nods.

I take over applying pressure while the other man assists Max in moving the body. Once in position, they lift the ladder like a stretcher. As we pass through the gate, I see Haymitch standing guard on Sae’s porch.

At our blood-covered appearance, he shouts something into the house and runs down with an appearance of complete sobriety. He grabs a side of the ladder with one hand, and mirrors my hand’s pressure with the other.

“Bear attack. Clawed,” I tell Haymitch.

“Alive?”

“Him yes, bear no.”

“How bad?”

“Better than a whipping.”

“Yours?” he asks, and I understand he means our direction. I nod.

As much as Haymitch drives me mad, no one can communicate with me like he can. He knows what I need from him before I ask. Releasing his side, he bounds up the steps and opens my front door. By the time we make it in, he’s already cleared off the long kitchen table and is hauling in an armful of towels. A little over a year ago we laid Gale’s torn body on this same table. How much has the world changed since then? Yet, here we are going through the same motions.

I hand him my knife and look pointedly at the body on the table before running off to the study. I grab the basket of rolled linens and a large syringe I remember my mother using to push water through to clean out deeper wounds.

When I return to the kitchen, Haymitch has successfully cut through the remaining clothing and thankfully draped a towel over the parts that would make me blush. I’m grateful his teasing has a time and place and it isn’t right now. I move to the sink where a pot is already filling with cool water and haul it over to the table and put another on the stove to boil.

Untying and removing the bloodied shirts, I set Max and Haymitch to cleaning him while I grab his still unnamed companion and place his shocked body into a chair. In the wake of their work, I fill the syringe with water and start irrigating the injured man’s wounds. It’s a messy business but the marks are cleaner cuts compared to Gale’s jagged shreds. I place down a layer of fresh gauze and then put another layer of fabric atop it as I hear Sae’s voice directing two more men through the doorway. They surge into action, asking Max a slew of questions. The blonde medic checks his pulse then turns to me to let them see the damage. I warn, “He’ll need stitches.” The man nods in agreement. “We’ll need to send for another kit. They don’t give us the thread for an injury that size.” I immediately toss them my mother’s stitch kit and quietly step aside to let them take it from here.

Max has moved to the man in the chair. “He’s going to be okay, Bailey. They’ll fix him right up.” Embarrassed at the thought of my sleevelessness and their shirtlessness, I grab a new sweater to cover up my scars and two thick towels from the linen cupboard. I hand one to Max and wrap the other around the man’s shoulders to help ease the shock. Max whispers to me, “They’re brothers.” My hands tighten around his shoulders before quickly turning away.

As I wash my hands and arms, Haymitch stands beside me. “We’re going to need some Capitol meds to fight off the fever the easy way.” I nod. I had been thinking the same thing. I take another look at him, tilting my head in thought.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the strongbox of illegal Capitol drugs in my study, would you?”

His mouth breaks into a grin. “It’s still here then? I thought it might have been used or taken during the evacuation. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

I take him back to the study and we lift the strongbox onto the desk.

“Let’s see,” he says as he starts to pull out boxes. “After Gale, I made some calls and had Plutarch reach out to a contact from the Games’ labs. Smuggled these out to your ma. Figured she should be prepared for anything. Ahh, here we go.” He grabs two pale blue vials and another vial of morphling and brings them out to Max and the medics. As he explains what the vials contain, they are clearly surprised, Max especially flabbergasted, but all elated.

Sae pulls me aside to ask, “What do you want to do with the bear?”

I look at her, bewilderment painted on my face before it hits. _Oh hell, the bear._ I sigh and rest my forehead on the doorframe, already exhausted at the idea.

“I’ll need someone to stay here. Do you have to start dinner?”

“No, I’ve got the ladies handling it tonight. I can watch the place for you.”

Haymitch wanders over in inquisitiveness. I tilt my head from the doorframe to look at him, “Wanna’ field dress a bear?”

We leave the house in Sae’s hands. She knows where everything is and will stop any strangers from wandering. Thom is sending a runner off as Haymitch and I approach the cabin.

“How is Avery?” That must be Bailey’s brother’s name.

“They’re stitching him up. We found some Capitol meds that will help,” Haymitch answers. Thom’s face displays his relief.

“You here for the bear?” I nod and he leads the way.

“Goddamn, sweetheart. You took that down with an arrow?”

Haymitch’s eyes bulge at the black furred monstrosity.

“Hmm, six arrows,” I clarify.

As we approach, Thom looks queasy and Haymitch looks as if the bear might wake at any moment. I take a broken plank of wood from the debris and prod at the bear to make sure it’s dead. _This is going to take all night._ I glance at Haymitch, and he seems to be thinking the same thing.

“Next time you have a runner, can we send for some help? Haymitch and I can make due, but will eventually need to move it.”

I grab another sheet of tarpaulin and lay it beside the bear. I take a deep breath, “You ready?” I ask Haymitch, then turn to Thom, “This is about to get messy. I won’t be offended if you leave.” He backs up, but a morbid curiosity keeps him within watching distance.

Haymitch’s gruff voice mumbles with humor, “You always keep things exciting, don’t you sweetheart.”

We remove the entrails and start draining by the time Samson arrives with two hulking men. _I’m being forced to meet far too many people for just one day_. Thadd and Lennox, as they are introduced, are unbelievably polite despite their resemblance to brick walls. Haymitch laughs, “We did need some muscle, sweetheart.”

They ask about what happened as we roll the bear onto the tarp and drag it to the tree line. It takes the two of them plus Thom, Haymitch, and I to hoist the bear.

Thom carries over a table and Samson drops down an armful of pots and pans. I’m going to need more than just Haymitch if we want to have any hope of being done before midnight. “Either of you have a strong stomach and are good with a knife?” I ask the newcomers.

Thadd explains that he’s from 10 and worked in cattle processing before the war. Lennox, from 11, offers to stay and assist despite his lack of experience. Mostly, I think both don’t want to pass up the opportunity for a good story. _“Did I ever tell you about the time I skinned a bear with the Mockingjay?”_

They offer stories of home, the war, or life on the crew to pass the time and Haymitch chimes in with snarky comments that set off ripples of laughter. Their gregariousness helps pass the hours. With much effort, we remove the enormous pelt and a third of the meat by the time dinner is ready. Thom keeps the crowds away from the back of the cabin and I send Sam off to eat. The gents choose to work through the meal to stay with me .

My arms are aching by the time Colton carries over trays of food for us. He assigns someone to ferry the twelve containers of bear meat into any empty Village freezer he can find. Lennox starts a fire and we sit in the grass to dig in.

Lennox turns to me hesitantly. “Beg your pardon ma’am, but I’ve got to ask... I mean… You’re not the least bit crazy are you?”

Haymitch snorts and starts violently coughing. Subtle Haymitch.

In my exhaustion, I answer with truthful gravity, “No one makes it through the Games without losing some sanity. I did it twice.” I turn my face to the stars and breathe in the clean night air. “But to your point, no, I’m no lunatic. I shoot presidents for very good reasons.”

Haymitch snorts again. “Geeze, sweetheart. Maybe dial back the honestly just a hair.”

None of the others seem concerned so I shrug. What do I care? Thom changes subjects, “Katniss, why do you think the bear attacked?”

I’d been stewing over that question for a good portion of the evening. Animals are not complicated creatures. I understand their motives much better than their human counterparts.

“Am I correct in assuming that this container is where you dump trash and food?”

At their confirmation I explain, “He followed his nose. After months of no activity in the district, they must not be afraid anymore and have gotten curious. I’ve spent my life in these woods. I’ve only seen a black bear once and it was a small one at that. By the looks of those marks, he thought he found an easy meal and tried to climb in. It wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. You’re going to want to find a better disposal system. This will keep drawing out scavengers.”

“At least we know the fence had some actual purpose,” he notes.

“Is there a common room or something in that cabin?” I ask Thadd.

“There’s a meeting room with a fireplace and some couches. Why?”

I chuckle, eyes sparkling, and look at Haymitch.

He guffaws then explains the rest, “She’s got a 7-foot bear pelt and a 12-year-old she’s going to refuse to take hunting for a while. How’d you boys like a nice bear skin rug for the cabin?”


	21. CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXI

At half-past ten, Haymitch and I finally return to the house. Not wanting to be there alone with people I don’t know, I’ve offered Haymitch a spare bed and a fresh bottle of liquor in exchange for his services. When we enter the kitchen, I can tell Sae’s been cleaning by its spotlessness. The woman cannot rest.

Sae’s chatting in the corner with the blonde medic. Avery is still on the table, however fresh linens and a pillow have been laid underneath him. His lower half has been redressed in pajama bottoms and his exposed back now sports some impressively neat stitches. Seated next to him are two nearly identical looking brothers. I recognize Bailey, but the bearded one is new.

He stands as soon as he sees me, eyes flooding, and then suddenly scoops me up into a tight embrace. My face displays my shock as my feet dangle a foot above the ground.

“Hey now, Bailey. Let’s let the nice lady breathe,” the bearded brother utters softly.

Stroking his brother's shoulder, Bailey seems to become aware of what he’s doing. “Oh – Oh! I’m so sorry Miss Everdeen! I’m just so – I don’t – I don’t know what we’d - ” He can’t find the words and continues to stutter out half sentences.

“I understand. It’s okay.”

He looks relieved to be able to stop trying to find the words. His brother holds out his hand and flashes a charming smile.

“The name’s Cash, Miss. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I can’t tell you how thankful I am you were there for my brothers.” He winks, “They say you’re a bird, but I think you’re an angel.”

Embarrassment floods me and I self-consciously drop my eyes to my toes. “All right, Casanova,” Haymitch smarts, “tone it down.”

Sae picks up her shawl and walks over to us. “I’m heading home. A medic will be returnin’ early in the mornin' to give him another dose of morphling. Oh, and I sent one of the lads out to your garden to finish planting those trees you left behind, hope that’s alright. I’ll see you in the morning.” I thank her, having long forgotten the morning’s plum trees, and escort her out.

Before I return to the kitchen, I reach into a gaudy urn and pull out the bottle of liquor I had secreted away. Haymitch grins at its sight but stops himself before he takes a swig from the bottle. Instead, he pours out four glasses and hands one to each of us. Bailey and Cash look much obliged for the liquid comfort, but I wrinkle my nose at the pungent glass. After Haymitch knocks his back in one gulp I hand mine to him to finish. He raises his eyes in challenge.

“I learned my lesson. Once was more than enough.”

Though I’ll never say it out loud, I know I am similar to Haymitch. If I start trying to find peace at the bottom of a bottle, I won’t ever crawl out. The memory of the last time I drank white liquor, the night the Quell was announced, is permanently etched into my mind. I thought it was awful going in, but I had no idea how much worse it could be coming back up. I made a complete fool of myself and broke down in front of both my mother and sister. As far as I can remember, that was the first time _they_ had to take care of _me_. Though Prim was the one that held me, brushed my hair, and tucked me in, my mother did sit on the edge of the bed so I’d know she was close. That was the first day I realized that my little duck was no longer the little girl I volunteered for.

That was also the first day that ‘Career Peeta’ arrived. I wanted him to hold me but instead got lectures and training exercises. I still burn with shame at how he judged my weakness that night.

“You boys liking 12?” Haymitch asks, showing his sociable side.

Cash brightens, “Definitely. We were happy for the work, but knew right away we wanted to stay. We want to start fresh someplace and where better than a district doing the same thing.” Bailey adds, “Being a member of the crew since the very start, we feel connected to the place now. The heads said they’d make sure we get a top spot on the permanent housing list.”

“We’d like a place with shop space,” Cash continues with aplomb. “We all worked the menswear lines in 8’s factories, so we know the trade backwards and forwards. We used to dream that after the war we’d open our own tailoring shop - Hennessey Brothers: Fine Tailors.”

Haymitch looks to the third brother. “He wake up at all?”

“Yeah, about an hour after you left. Mid-stitching, he woke up cursin’ and spittin’.”

Bailey interrupts, looking to me, “I’ve never seen anything like that before, outside the Game of course. That thing was huge and so angry. I didn’t even see it at first, then Avery threw a crate at it to distract it away from me and the bear just charged right at him.”

He takes a healthy gulp of the fiery liquid. “He’s the eldest, you know? Both our parents are gone and he takes the responsibility seriously. Didn’t think twice about having that bear go at him instead of me.”

“I can understand,” I say softly. And I do. It’s hardly even a conscious thought for an elder sibling; it’s our duty.

He studies me, “You really do don’t you?”

“It’s as natural as breathing,” the three men look at me, each with differing emotion. "I didn’t even have to think before I volunteered." I was saying the words and pushing her behind me before my mind could catch up.

“We lost our little sister last year.” His eyes begin to well up. “Her tiny lungs couldn’t take all the smoke from the bombings. Went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up again. It was awful for all of us, but he took it the hardest,” Cash describes.

“What was her name?” I ask quietly.

“Des- Desdemona,” a voice garbles from the table.

Avery’s eyes flutter but struggle to stay open. I move back to make room for the two anxious men.

“Hey there, big brother, decided to stop sleeping the day away?” Cash jokes lightheartedly.

“You safe? It didn’t get you?” He questions Bailey, worryingly.

“Not a scratch. All thanks to you. Here, have some sips of water.” Bailey holds a glass to his lips for him to sip slowly. He coughs, “Hurts. Something warm?”

The two younger brothers look up at me like a pair of lost puppies. “Give me a few minutes.”

I head into the study, pulling out my mother’s journal to locate the page I recently read about a mining amputation. She listed an old Culpeper family recipe for a replenishing tea for blood loss. Flipping through the pages, I find the familiar entry: yellow dock, rosehips, nettles, beet powder, anise, elderberry, and honey to sweeten. I retrieve a small copper bowl and dole out the measurements of each item. Back in the kitchen, I steep the tea mixture and pour a mug for Avery.

“Hey, you’re Katniss Everdeen,” Avery mumbles, opening his eyes up enough to see me for the first time. His brother tips small sips of tea into his mouth. “What’re you doin’ in my bedroom?”

His brothers laugh at his morphling haze and Haymitch smirks, enjoying the show.

“You’re on her kitchen table, Avery.”

“Oh,” he sips again.

“Why’s Katniss Everdeen’s table in m’bedroom?”

No one tries to correct him a second time. He quiets and we think he’s fallen asleep when, “Hey Bailey,” he starts.

“Yeah, brother?”

“Did Katniss Everdeen make you tea, too?” The men snicker at that.

“No Avery, she only made special tea for you.”

His drugged face smiles at that. “It’s ‘cause ‘m the handsomest.”

We all can’t keep a straight face at that one.

I squat down so my face is at his level and playfully tell him, “You know, you can just call me Katniss.” His eyelids are too heavy now to open and he’s halfway back to sleep.

“M’kay Katniss Everdeen.”

* * *

I don’t sleep well with other people in the house. I’m not really worried, but it still is uncomfortable. Thankfully, by the next afternoon, they’ve moved Avery back to the cabin and my house returns to its proper level of solitude.

Sam is disappointed when I tell him I won’t take him out to hunt, but he quickly rebounds when I pull out the enormous bear pelt and tell him his newest assignment. His eyes gleam at the prospect of being the hero who presents the finished fur to the crew at the cabin. Boys will be boys, I suppose.

I spend most of the day quietly swinging on the porch. I briefly tend to the garden and counsel Samson on his work, but I find myself lost in thoughts. The little sleep I found brought dreams of Boggs. I haven’t dreamt of his death in some time.

How could one step cause such carnage? It was the first in a series of truly terrible dominoes to fall. But Boggs, he was the consummate soldier. He was already transferring security protocols while I hadn’t even come to terms with the fact that his legs- the ones he was standing on seconds prior- were no longer there. I shudder at the image of his boot thrown so far away from his body. There was so much blood, the Holo kept slipping in my hands. Homes was adamant that he could staunch the blood flow and save him, but Boggs knew.

I wonder if he knew what he was doing when he passed that Holo to me. Would he have been disappointed with all the destruction that followed? Would he have been pleased that he succeeded in keeping me alive?

> _“I’m planning for you to have a long life.”_
> 
> _“Why? You don’t owe me anything.”_
> 
> _"Because you earned it.” *_

Yet who of us hasn’t earned the right to a long, happy life? When I count in my head, the dead always seem to outnumber the living. Every one of them died before their time.

Yesterday a bear wandered in to town and in one moment, if a claw was a little higher or a little deeper, Avery would have never seen another day. If Boggs had stepped just a little to the left, maybe he would still be here.

How do you reconcile that? In a single second, everything can change.

* * *

“Katniss! Oh I’m so thrilled you answered! I know it is late but I had to talk to you! Such big, big news!”

Effie’s voice is a welcome sound. Having not heard anything since the package arrived weeks ago, I was mildly concerned. If things had been less exciting in 12 I may have been more so, but I hoped no news was good news.

“It’s been some time since your last call. Everything’s okay?”

“Everything is marvelous, my dear, I hardly know where to begin. There is oh so very much to divulge. Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see… last time we spoke we had just received your magical box of treasures for our favorite boy, and goodness did you deliver! However did you do it? I must confess,” her voice drops conspiratorially, “many of the items you found baffled me - but oh - if you could have seen Peeta’s face.” Her volume increases again, “Of course I knew you would know just what to do. My plans never fail.”

“His face?” 

“Yes, his face, his face! His eyes lit up and those two dear dimples dared to show themselves. Such a handsome boy, I do adore it when he smiles,” She preens like a proud mama.

“Katniss, dear, is there some special District 12 significance of old coffee cups? Now that you’ve sent one, he refuses to use any others. Rather outré. The clothing choices you packed were a bit plain but Peeta didn’t seem to mind. Most exciting, is that he’s drawing again. Did I mention that he wasn’t when I arrived? Well, he’s now rediscovered it and his fingers are positively filthy.”

“Now,” she clears her throat, returning to Escort mode, “we have much to plan for. Peeta has decided he is ready to leave the facility.” Then she says five words that cause my knees to buckle from underneath me. “He’s ready to come home.”

I sink down onto the floor, the cord dragging the phone as my body pulls it down.

_He’s coming home. Here - with me - home._

Effie, unaware of my shock, continues on. “His medications are stable and there isn’t much for the doctors to do now besides run a miscellany of mysterious tests for ‘research’. They aren’t pleased with the decision, but he’s agreed to call them daily. My word, he’s been here for over five months, what more can they want?” She huffs in frustration. “Anyway, I have lists and lists of things to do so we can be ready to leave as soon as possible.”

“How soon?” I whisper, unable to find my voice.

“Hmm,” she voices distractedly. The sound of flipping pages can be heard in the background. “What was that, dear? You asked when? If I have any say in it, we should be in transit in one or no more than two weeks. I’ve alrea -.“

The receiver drops out of my hand like a hot brick.

_So soon._ That is so soon.

Effie’s voice continues to chatter away unintelligibly. I flounder to retrieve the receiver and return it to my ear. “- and finding an acceptable train car these days is easier said than done. There is a shocking lack of velvet.” She sighs with disappointment, “But I know we shall persevere.

“Now tell me the honest truth, Katniss. How dreadful is that district of yours? I shan’t abandon Peeta and I assured those pesky doctors I’d stay with him while he settles in, but I must prepare myself for the wilds. District 12 was always so dusty and drab, but alas Peeta is rather excited at the prospect, so I must cover my disinclination.”

I struggle to form words. I think my vocabulary tumbled out onto the floor when I dropped the receiver.

“It, um,” I attempt, “it’s no Capitol, Effie.”

“Well that’s quite an understatement,” she scolds. “Is it an absolute mess? Are the builders all brutes? I know culture and entertainment will be on short supply, but what of the rest?”

How do I respond to any of that? _Stick to the basic questions, Katniss._ “The construction is going well. The crewmen are, um - fine.” Good, those are answers.

“I suppose I shall resign myself to being surprised,” she sighs again. “Perhaps I’ll suffer through a phone call with Haymitch to find out more. Well, I don’t have a moment to loose. You may not hear from me, it will be a big week, you know. I simply cannot wait to have both of my Victors near!”

Then her voice cracks, “Our team will finally be together again!” She covers her emotion quickly, “Must fly, my dear – tata!”

My left arm trembles. I’ve lost all control of its movement. Its tremors rattle the hard, plastic receiver against my temple. _What is that noise? Are my ears ringing?_

The unnatural hum from the receiver blares like a siren. Everything else around me has gone mute except for that incessant hum. There’s a sharp pain in my breast and when I bring my right hand to rub at the aching, I feel my chest harshly rising and falling. It feels like a Capitol corset is being yanked tighter and tighter.

He’s coming here.

_Soon_.

He’ll be here soon.

The melody to “The Hanging Tree” bounces around in my head and I’m back in 13. I’m back in 13, with shaking hands, tying knots with Finnick, waiting for the Rescue Team to return. I feel the unfamiliar boiling warmth of hope held deep inside my heart. The urge I felt when they arrived to run as fast as my legs could take me and fuse myself to him. After weeks of fear, I’d finally hear his laugh and to feel his arms around me. I’d finally know he’s safe again under my protection. I’d finally _put him somewhere he couldn't get hurt._ *

But my body also remembers how wrong that hope turned out to be. I was so sure he was reaching to embrace me. That is, until his fingers wrapped around my throat. While my vision blurred and my lips began to turn blue, I remember thinking about how I had grown to know those two large hands so well. In only one year, against my wishes, I grew to trust those hands with my life. Such an unimaginable betrayal that it was those two hands then squeezing my life away.

I remember shock as I stared into his hardened, unrecognizable gaze while I listened to the symphony of delicate neck bones fracturing. I had spent countless nights clutching that pearl and thinking about Peeta and I reuniting. Never once did he look at me with such hatred. For precious seconds, I forgot all instincts to even fight back. I remember my mind eventually letting go, an acceptance of my fate washing through me. I comprehended that I had already breathed my last breath and death’s embrace sounded like a rather welcome relief.

Effie says he’s better, that the doctors have helped, but what if they’re wrong? I have such hope for his return; in the privacy of my own head I have pictured it countless times, but what if I’m wrong again? What if he still hates me? Against my will and against my reason, his good opinion matters much more to me than all others. It can’t be fixed; what’s been done cannot be undone. Is it even worth trying?

My neck feels numb or maybe it is my hands. Rolling over to press my cheek against the grain of the wood floor, I feel simultaneously hot and cold. Shivers and sweats. _Is the ground moving?_ The delicate hairs all over my skin stand to attention. I feel myself yanked backwards, ripping me from reality. Peeta slams me into the ground. His body pins me as he raises his gun and brings it down. The air reeks of tar and murder burns in his eyes as he tries to crush my skull.

_No, NO!_

_You’re not in the streets of the Capitol, Katniss. You’re in your study in 12. The war is over. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe._

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I survived the Hunger Games. Peeta was hijacked. We survived the rebellion. Prim did not. I am in 12. Peeta’s coming to 12. Peeta’s coming home. Peeta’s coming home. Peeta’s coming home._

_It’s… it’s where he belongs… home… with me._

* * *

“Katniss… Katniss...”

Everything hurts.

“Come on, child, wake up.”

No.

If I move, everything will hurt more.

_No, thank you, I’ll be staying right here until further notice._

“Katniss, you can’t stay here.”

_Oh yes I can._

“So we’re going to do this the hard way, huh?”

In one swift motion, I find my body, which to this point has been frozen and curled on its side on the study floor, turned onto my back then pulled by my arms to sit up. I groan, feeling the ache in every muscle. I tightly squeeze my eyelids together then open them warily. Sae is sitting in the desk chair looking down at the pathetic sight of me.

“Good afternoon, child. Would you like to tell me what happened here?”

Couldn’t she choose an easier question?

“Afternoon?” I ask blearily.

“We weren’t too surprised when you were gone all morning but started to worry when you still hadn’t shown by lunch. Didn’t notice you the first time I checked, but caught sight of your foot on the second pass.”

She leans down and pets my cheek where the floor’s wood grain is likely imprinted. “Now what happened to leave you in such a state. I’d reckon you spent the whole night in that position. Am I right?”

I nod, but hiss immediately at the pang that shoots through me from the movement.

“Ah, let’s hold that thought until we get you in a hot bath. Come on, meet an old lady halfway.”

She holds out her hands and together, with great effort, I find my feet. I feel dizzy, lightheaded from the sudden change in altitude, but Sae keeps a tight grip and escorts me step-by-step to the bathroom.

She fills the tub, spoons in several fragrant salts, and tells me to climb in. “Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” she tuts.

Once I undress and settle, sinking down so that the water has me submerged to my chin, Sae plants herself down, ready to continue our conversation. I close my eyes and focus on the slow relief of my muscles.

“Effie called late last night.”

“Bad news?” She guesses.

“The opposite.”

I know I need to elaborate. I slide my body down and immerse my head. Holding my breath, I savor the complete saturation, baptizing the night’s distress.

Returning to the surface, I keep my eyes closed and try again.

“I panicked, remembered some bad memories. You know, the usual. Didn’t have a closet nearby so I stuck with the floor. It’s not bad news though.” Leaning my head back and staring at the plain ceiling, I inform, “She’s bringing Peeta back to 12.”

“He done with the doctors then?”

“Enough I guess. Tired of that facility they’ve put him in. He… he wants to come home.”

“Makes sense.” She looks at me quizzically, “I’d have thought you’d be happy about this.”

“I am,” the words leap out, “I want him here.” I struggle to express myself. “I.. I don’t like it when he’s not… near. Don’t ask me to explain why, I really can’t say.”

“Oh I could make one or two guesses, but no matter,” she laughs affectionately. Handing me a bottle of shampoo to work through my damp hair, then asks, “So when shall we expect our newest neighbors?”

“Effie said around two weeks,” I mumble as I lather the gel.

Sae lifts an eyebrow. “Not wasting any time are they?” I shake my head: _no, they’re not._

I continue my ablutions as Sae passes on the latest news. The crews have finished building another three structures. They are discussing what special trades should be brought in to replace the mines. The Capitol medicine worked wonders and Avery is already begging to return to work but is being forced to rest. Samson is toiling away at the bearskin, eager to exhibit it to the older men and, apparently, everyone is telling tales about the attack. The more they feast on the meat, the wilder the stories seem to become. Sae cackles as she regales me with one version of the tale where I apparently climbed up the bear’s back and wrestled it to the ground.

With my hands pruned and muscles much more cooperative, Sae helps me out of the tub, careful of my wobbling balance. As she wraps a towel around me and begins to leave, I stop her.

“Will you help me? To get Peeta’s house ready?”

She turns back to me and plants a kiss on my forehead. “You rest today and we’ll start fresh in the morning”

* * *

“Goodness, child, this is depressing.”

With that pronouncement and an arsenal of mops, brooms, and rags, Sae and I begin our assault on Peeta’s house. Most of it is already tidy so our efforts focus on dusting and freshening up the place.

I clean the kitchen out of any questionable items and open all the windows to invite in some much needed fresh air. I’d like to fix up the sterile-feeling rooms downstairs, but know it’s not my place. I can only hope Peeta will make improvements once he settles.

With Sae’s encouragement, I carry over two crates of supplies to restock his pantry. I include jars of preserves and honey, a small bottle of my maple syrup, tins of sugar, tea and coffee, and some fresh herbs from the garden that I hang to dry and infuse the air. The best decision was to, with Samson’s assistance, lug over the large and barely touched sack of fine white flour. Sae and I both cross our fingers that he will be inspired to put it to good use

When I walk through both guest rooms on the second floor, I don’t imagine Effie Trinket being pleased at either’s décor. It’s of Capitol quality, of course, but the style is decidedly masculine. Though I do not possess a keen eye for design, I do know that Effie Trinket is the farthest thing from masculine. So, in an effort to express my gratitude, I exchange the linens and drapes for the feminine one’s Cinna arranged for my mother’s room. She’ll never miss them and I know any of the lovely things Cinna purchased would meet Effie’s requirements.

That evening, I sneak Peeta’s quilt back into his room.

With a few folds and tucks, it is almost as if it had never been removed.

I miss it already.

* * *

_*Quotes from The Hunger Games and Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, you've all been very patient, but the wait will be soon over.   
> Next chapter: Peeta's return.


	22. CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXII

“Kat, when can we go hunting again?”

I glance up from the soil where I’ve just transplanted two wild berry bushes. Samson, is wrestling with the damp bear pelt and doesn’t appear to be winning.

“Sae’s almost done working through the excess meat, so by tomorrow we should be okay to add more. Nothing big though.” I smirk, “We can practice your accuracy on small game. Think you can hit a squirrel?”

It’s been just shy of a week, and Sam’s anxiousness to return after the hiatus is obvious. I’ve been content to silently wander the woods and get garden dirt under my nails, but I’m sympathetic to his eagerness.

“But they’re so fast!” He whines.

“You’ve got to think ahead of them,” I explain. “Aim for where they will be not where they are. Same with birds.”

He looks doubtful. “Are they really so predictable, Kat?"

I spy Haymitch as he swaggers our way. I sigh, “Yeah, Sam, pretty predictable.”

“Hey, kid,” Haymitch interrupts, “can I steal her for a few?”

I knew this conversation was coming.

“So, sweetheart, got anything to tell me?”

I drop my chin and raise my eyebrows impertinently. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

He grunts at that. “A heads up would have been appreciated. There’s nothing like being blindsided by Effie Trinket. That woman is far too concerned about her shoes.”

He bends down and joins me on the ground.

“Seriously though, sweetheart, you okay with all this?”

He nudges my shoulder with his own. By the look in his eyes I can tell the concern is genuine. When I don’t respond he nudges me again.

“I – I don’t know what I am.” I rub up and down my thighs in frustration. “I’m worried, I know there’s no use hiding that. But it’s… it’s what I’ve wanted, Haymitch. Peeta belongs here. His home is here. And I don’t like it when he’s out of my sight. Bad things happen.”

“Bad things happen no matter what, sweetheart. You know that.” He leans back and flicks at a leaf. “But, I understand your point. Between the two of you, you almost make one decent person.”

I scuff some dirt onto his boot in retaliation. “I know you say that just to be an ass, but it’s not untrue. You ever think about what it would have been like if either one of us was in that Arena alone? ‘Cause I sure have, and it doesn’t end well.”

He tilts his head, squinting his eyes into the sun, as if trying to imagine such a fate. “Why?”

“Think about it. Peeta’s heart is too gentle and his survival skills too weak. He would have offered his weapon Foxface and his last meal to Rue. He would have refused to ‘play the game’ and eventually eaten some poisoned berries by accident. Me, I wouldn’t have had a single sponsor interested in sending aid but, who knows, I might have still survived. But I would have come out of the Games an empty shell with no appealing qualities and incapable of connecting or communicating with anything.”

“S’pose that’s true. You would have ended up a lot like me, except at least I have an ounce of interpersonal skills.” I tilt my head his way, conceding to his point despite the insult. It is true.

“If I hadn’t spent most of my time with Peeta trying to build a wall between us and trying to prove that I was fine on my own, we could have had an impressive partnership. I see that now.”

He hums in agreement. “During the war, the impact of your separation was obvious to anyone that was paying attention. So you’re glad your star-crossed lover is returning?”

The fury hits me like bullet. My fists ball up tightly and I try to count backwards to calm myself. Haymitch has never really understood how upsetting that is. It was his creation and he’s proud of its success, but he doesn’t see the monster that it became.

I whisper darkly and fight the tears that want to follow. “I know, its funny to you, but please, just… just _don’t_. I will always be thankful that it is what got us both out alive, but it’s done so much harm. Mainly by my own hands, _my_ behavior and _my_ actions. The ‘star-crossed lovers’ was used to destroy him. I am painfully aware it’s all my fault. I don’t need to be constantly reminded.”

Haymitch stares at me, speechless for the first time in our relationship. My mouth is dry. I’ve said too much today.

I stand up, agitated and needing to get out of here. “I just want us to be Peeta and Katniss. It’s what we always should have been. Is that so much to ask?”

* * *

Three days later, I’m in the yard tossing small burlap sacks of soil into the air as Samson attempts to hit one. It’s as near to the exercises I ran in the Training Center before the Quell. So far, there have been no successes, but Sam finds the activity amusing and has sworn he will hit one by the end of the day.

Moments before I decide it’s time to pack it in, Sam nicks the corner of a bag. His deafening cheers are joined by the sound of applause and rowdy whistles. Watching from the garden are Thom and Colton. _I have too many visitors these days._

“Ha! Did ya’ see that?! Did ya’? Woo!” Sam snags the fallen sack and pumps it into the air, scattering soil like confetti. The two men laugh at the sight. “I’ve gotta go show Miss Sae!” He shouts as he runs up the garden and into the house without a ‘by your leave’.

Thom and Colton wander down to join me as I retrieve the remaining bags where they lay scattered. I suppose they need to tell me something. They always take so long to spit it out. I wish they would just come out and say it.

“So Samson looks like he’s had a good day.” Colton starts as he hands me two sacks. He might as well commented on the weather or some other benign small talk. These social niceties have always made me itchy. I nod. I catch him taking in the dark circles under my eyes, more pronounced from the past week of increasingly unpleasant dreams and general insomnia.

“Are you having a good one, too?”

I nod again, not paying much attention. Why should I make it easy on them?

There is a lengthy pause before Thom chuckles under his breath. “Alright Katniss, you win. We’re here because we got a call this morning from the President’s office notifying us that Peeta was moving back to the district within the week. They don’t yet know which train yet.” He frowns. “You don’t look surprised.”

“Effie called to tell me.”

“What’s an Effie?” Colton asks, making the corners of my lips turn upwards. What a loaded question.

“Effie Trinket, District 12 Escort. She’s been with Peeta a little over a month now and will be settling in with him.” Feeling pert, I add, “Oh, I think she’d adore you, Colton.”

“Oh really?” he responds slyly. “I’ve always found that accent and those high heels very…” a devilish smile grows, “distracting.”

“Do we need to know anything? The message was especially vague.” Thom asks, returning to the primary topic.

I’m not sure how to answer that. I don’t want to divulge what he’s gone through. And even I don’t know what to expect.

“His doctors have cleared him, but he may still have some trouble. I don’t know, I doubt anyone does. Talk to Haymitch for details. I’d… I’d rather not.”

“We’ll do that then. Really, we just want to make sure you’re okay.” His voice drops. “I know you didn’t want Gale here, so we wanted to make sure Peeta wasn’t going to upset you. We’re all ready to help however we can.”

“No,” I snap at the comparison, and then attempt to calmly cover the overreaction.

“I mean, um, no. Peeta… Peeta’s different. District 12 doesn’t feel right without him.”

* * *

“Ana, can you bring me the purple flowers?”

It’s one of those perfect spring mornings and today I’ve been given two assistants in the garden. I wasn’t given any details but by the state of Anabel’s disarray and Sae’s chagrin, I can reasonably assume she got into some kind of trouble. Sae handed me a plate of breakfast and her only grandchild and then turned around and left without a single word.

Sam is avoiding the bear fur’s softening phase and is instead stationed on the far end of one of the empty soil beds planting the mysterious pumpkin and zucchini seeds. None of us has ever seen either vegetable before, so we have no idea what they will look like once they grow. However, one of my few fond memories of the Victory Tour includes that unbelievable orange soup served at the President’s Mansion. Peeta warned me to pace myself, but I was so upset and it was so good. If growing pumpkins could result in that soup, it’ll be a very worthy endeavor.

While he’s occupied there, I have Ana ‘helping’ me transplant the herb seedlings. I’ve braided her messy hair into two plaits and rolled up her sleeves to be able to ‘work’ unencumbered. She delights in smelling each plant and plucking leaves off the ones she likes the most. When I’m not looking she’ll sneak one into her mouth to taste, a maneuver that might have worked if her reactions to their flavors weren’t so obvious.

The growing row of herbs is a satisfying sight. Such a vision would have been impossible for my father or even my father’s father to witness. If you were lucky enough to have access to any of these, they were either dried and canned through expensive Capitol shipments or were native to 12 and illegally foraged.

Joining the previous patches are fragrant oregano, rosemary, sage, chives, and thyme seedlings. I could close my eyes and smell the sprigs of rosemary all afternoon, but my fantasies are interrupted by Anabel’s delivery. She’s left a trail of dirt behind her, but the small lavender shrub survives the journey intact. After depositing the first she returns to the porch to retrieve the next.

I find a spot next to where the calendula and alyssum will grow, away from the shadier area where the chamomile is sown. It will be nice to use these for some of my mother and Prim’s recipes. The tins and jars will eventually need to be refilled. I shake my head.

_What are you trying to prove, Katniss? You were always an outsider to their healing work. This isn’t going to bring either of them back to you. Just grab your bow and go to the woods where you belong._

Ana kneels next to me with the final container of early lavender. She grabs the plant by their lower stem and yanks it from its enclosure proudly holding it up, soil scattering off its dangling roots.

“Give me that you scamp,” I laugh. We plant it in a vacant hole and recover the roots.

I bend over to smell the pale purple buds when I feel a tug at my sweater’s hem. When I turn towards Ana, I follow the path of her shining face, to the line of her extended arm, to the direction of her tiny pointing finger.

For a moment, everything goes still.

He’s standing across the yard, amongst my blooming honeysuckle.

Without conscious though, my body stands.

We stare at each for seconds or maybe it is hours. The light catches his blue eyes as they grow glassy and shimmer in the sun and my legs can no longer remain still.

That string, the invisible one knotted deep in my chest wrapped beneath my ribs, the one that aches and twists and plummets, it is tugging me forward and I have not the will nor the inclination to resist it.

I don’t care if he wraps me in his arms or wraps his hands around my neck. I run to him like a drowning man fighting to the surface for air.

My arms knot behind his neck as his encase my lower back, clutching me into his chest. My toes gently graze the ground as I’m lifted closer.

It’s as if I can feel him returning one of my missing pieces. Did he know he had taken it with him? I swallow back a sob and press my nose into the curve of his neck.

“You’re real,” Peeta’s voice softly rumbles into my ear.

“So are you.”

I inhale deeply. It tickles the soft hairs along his neck.

“You smell different.”

His body quakes against mine in silent laughter, and then whispers softly, “How?”

I breathe in again, this time moving my nose into his golden hair. “Cedar trees and… hmm… peppermint.”

Curiosity fills him and he asks, “What did I smell like before?”

“Cinnamon, dill, and boy,” I answer with absolute confidence. It’s a perfectly preserved scent memory. This time his laughter bubbles out loud. “No more boy?”

I pull back and look at his face. There’s no anger or fear. I know these eyes gazing back at me – my boy with the bread. I purse my lips to keep from smiling but I’m sure my own eyes give me away. I move my nose near his armpit then try to wiggle away, “No, the boy is definitely still there.”

His eyes crinkle and a broad, dimpled smile tries to swallow his face. His hand snags my escaping arm and pulls me back into his embrace. “Oh no you don’t. Not yet.”

We’re quiet again, words not feeling necessary. I feel a sniff before my body is clutched even more tightly. I don’t think I’ve felt this safe since my father would bundle me into his arms after a scraped knee.

“I don’t-,” his voice shakes, “I can’t – I can’t remember. I should remember what you smell like.”

They took so much from him. It’s not fair. This is nothing compared to his other horrors, but it is still another thing stolen from him.

I don’t want him to be sad. There will be plenty of opportunities and reasons to do so later.

“It’s probably a good thing. I bet it wasn’t nice. Maybe squirrel, you think?”

He puffs out a soggy laugh. Sniffing in a running nose he mumbles something like, “impossible”.

“There’s not much good grasping at the past,” I whisper gravely. “What do I smell like _now_?”

I feel a large palm brush up my spine and knot thick fingers into my hair. My head wilts to one side, slowly presenting my exposed neck to him. Hot breath and chapped lips slowly whisper along the skin-covered path stretching from my shoulder to my ear, where his low voice finally murmurs: “You smell like home.”

“Um… Kat?”

_Huh?_

Peeta startles and we both look over to Samson who is watching warily from the other side of the garden bed. His grip slackens and I gently pull away. I try to swallow, my mouth dry. I look to Peeta to see if he shows any anxiety at our witnesses, but he merely seems curious.

I wave Sam closer. “Come meet Peeta. Peeta, this is Samson.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Mellark.” Sam greets with all the confidence of a fearless 12-year-old.

“You too Samson. And let’s stick with Peeta. Have you been helping Katniss?”

“I’m trying. She’s been teaching me lots. Hey! Do _you_ know what a zucchini looks like?”

I snort, unable to stop myself and both gentlemen turn to me. Sam defends, “What? He might know!” Just then a small rocket flies into my legs.

“Oof!”

Looking down to the mud-covered girl wiping her hands into my pants leg, I introduce my less helpful assistant.

“And this is Anabel, Sae’s granddaughter. Ana, this is Peeta.”

He crouches down to her eye level. “Well hello, Miss Anabel. Are you feeling shy?”

She has tucked herself behind me and is peeking out from behind my thigh. “She’s quiet with everyone, don’t take it personally.”

Peeta gazes at us with an unidentifiable look.

“Sam, can you help her clean up before Sae comes by with lunch?” The two of them scamper off leaving the two of us alone.

“I, um,” he starts, then turns around and lifts a small crate. _Why does he look so bashful?_

“Well, Plutarch may have mentioned to Effie that you had a garden, so I – I brought you these.” He lifts up the lid to a dozen small heart-shaped buds in white, yellow, and pale pink. “For her.”

“Primroses.” My fingertips reach to feel the fragile barely-opened buds. Unbound, a tear rolls down my cheek.

With no hesitation, he reaches up and wipes it away with his thumb. “I thought we could plant them together.”

I nod rapidly and use my shoulder to wipe away another tear before it falls completely, and then grab his hand to pull him over to the row with Prim’s wildflowers.

We work silently, digging one small hole, filling it, and then moving to the next. The crate is soon empty and the primroses have found a home in the sunshine outside of my little duck’s window. I stare at the delicate buds, too young to bloom, not yet in the prime of their lives.

“I miss her so much.”

“I know.”

Nothing more needs to be said. No platitudes or apologies. Only a complete understanding.

We stand and he self-consciously brushes soil off his hands and the knees of his khakis. I assume I’m so filthy by this point that the effort would be in vain. I do try to push back the sweaty wisps of hair that have escaped my braid and cling to my face.

He smiles sadly. “I should head back to the house before Effie comes looking for me.”

I nod.

“Thank you. For the flowers... and… and for coming back.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says solemnly, locking eyes with me before dropping them and turning to leave.

I force myself to unfreeze, shaking out of my stupor. _Words, Katniss, use your words._

“Dinner!”

Peeta stops at the corner of the house, confusion marring his face. _Well that’s a word. Perhaps you should add a few more._

“Would you- would you and Effie like to come over for dinner?” I find the vocabulary to clarify.

His face brightens.

“We’ll be there at six.”

* * *

“Yoohooo!” Knocking followed by Effie’s voice peals from the front door. Her tapping heels are accompanied by the sound of jangles.

I place the water glasses on the table and wipe my palms nervously. My hair is still damp from the shower but my palms now seem to want to match with their clamminess.

“There is my girl!” Effie’s silhouette enters the doorframe. Her suit is a velvety emerald green accented with gold bangle bracelets. With each enthusiastic gesture she clangs like an elegant wind chime. “Let me get a good look at you.”

Her glittered nails trace down my cheeks and onto my shoulders.

“I have some cream for those dark circles but otherwise you look lovely, my dear.” She runs her hands up and down my arms. “Aren’t you warm in this sweater?” She clicks her tongue. “At least it’s one of Cinna’s. He always found you the softest fabrics.” Then drops a kiss onto each of my cheeks.

I look up at her towering face. Her lashes are still dramatic and her lips are painted a bright red, but what’s shocking is her artfully coiffed strawberry blond hair. Gone are her colorful wigs of pink, orange, and gold. In their place is what must be her natural locks teased and twisted into an elegant up-do. Why would she ever cover up such a thing?

“You look so pretty Effie.”

Her hands flutter to her hair. “You think so? It’s new for me. My darling Peeta convinced me that it was time I set a new trend. Wigs are so pre-Rebellion.” Over her shoulder I see the instigator in question blushing as he tries to hide the smile forming.

Effie presents a bottle of wine from, she explains, a crate she traveled with for the explicit purpose of retaining some elegance while in 12. They settle in at the kitchen table while I carry over the plates. I’ve added some fresh greens from the garden to make Sae’s hearty meal more Effie-friendly. Once I set down the plates, I go to the cabinets and reach towards the top shelf to pull down the never-used wine glasses.

“Is Haymitch joining us?” Peeta asks, counting the plates.

I look out the window over the sink towards Haymitch’s house. “He should be.”

As I pour the wine, one large Haymitch-sized glass, two average-sized, and one single sip glass for myself, the back door swings open causing me to nearly drop the bottle. Haymitch has never been one to knock nor use the front door for that matter.

“Ah, I’ve got perfect timing as always,” Haymitch announces, eying the sparkling wine.

“There he is! Come ’ere, boy.” Peeta and he share a hug outfitted with manly back patting. “And do my eyes deceive me or is this Effie Trinket?” He bows to her dramatically which seems to delight Effie.

“That looks like a clean shirt, Haymitch, thank you for the honor.” He winks, grabs the fullest glass from my hand, and joins the others at the table.

Effie fills the meal with stories of life at the facility and the ‘horrifying’ train journey to 12. Peeta speaks up when prompted or to clarify any overstatements or inaccuracies. Haymitch asks questions, teases, and cracks jokes. And I, I don’t say a word, quiet as I ever was. I listen attentively and enjoy hearing the tales, but I don’t know what I could ever possibly add. I’ve never been good at these things. I wisely cut my food into minuscule pieces so I can appear occupied, but by Peeta’s expression I think I’ve been found out.

As I remove the empty plates and bring them to the sink, Haymitch is describing the crews and the current status of the rebuild.

“Sae and her team make breakfast and dinner everyday. She’ll leave plenty here for both of you so help yourself. Katniss doesn’t lock her doors.” My eyes widen at that news and I look over my shoulders at him peacefully sipping his second glass of wine. How nice of him to open my home without asking. I roll my eyes and return to the soapy dishes.

“I’ve told Thom, one of the crew leaders and a local kid, to come here tomorrow for dinner and meet you both. He might bring a couple others along to tell you more about the plans for 12.”

I put the last dish down to dry and clutch the edge of the sink in frustration. _More people Haymitch?_ Why is he being such a bastard? I take a deep breath in and blow it out slowly through my lips. _Don’t get angry, Katniss, don’t let him win._

“We don’t need to bother Katniss with all this, Haymitch. I’m sure they can meet us at my house.” Oh Peeta, you wonderful man; always looking out for me.

I take another stabilizing breath and straighten my spine. “It’s okay,” I glance sideways at my Mentor in suspicion, “I’m sure he has his reasons for arranging things this way.”

Once I walk Peeta and Effie to the door, I’m hit by the emotional exhaustion of this day. It was a good one, honestly, a wonderful one, but a lot for one day.

As I wish them a good night, Peeta lingers. He reaches for my hand and cradles it between both of his own.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” A mixture of extreme doubt and tremendous hope is warring on his face.

I squeeze gently, glancing down at the two interlocked palms before forcing my gaze back up to his bottomless blue eyes.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”


	23. CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

“Well darling, this little district may not be à la mode, but I believe it is very promising. I’m so tickled that tonight we will be meeting the ringleaders of this new venture. I have so many ideas, and I am certain they are desperate for my consultation.”

Effie is awake and perky while she daintily sips coffee at my kitchen table.

“I must ask, Peeta seems to think the bedroom I’m staying in is a different decor and after he mentioned it I recalled shopping for those gorgeous chiffon drapes with our dear Cinna. Did you have something to do with that, Katniss?”

My cheeks warm as my two companions look at me expectantly.

“When Sae and I cleaned up the house, I didn’t think you’d like the room as it was. Cinna’s design for my mother’s room seemed more appropriate.” I shrug. “It was an easy switch.”

Misty-eyed, she flutters, “Oh, aren’t I the most fortunate of Escorts?”

Peeta speculates, “You stocked up the kitchen too, didn’t you?”

I scratch at my neck, feeling guilty. “We had plenty from when Sae was cooking here and you needed something to fill the shelves.”

Peeta chuckles and tosses back, “And the enormous sack of baking flour? That was to just fill up shelf-space too?”

I don a smug grin. “Oh no, that was Sae and me choosing to leave it with a master. It was the responsible thing to do.”

“Oh Peeta, isn’t that lovely! You didn’t get to bake at all at the center.” She turns to me to explain, “I know he has been missing it. I remember his lamenting every time they brought another appalling dinner roll. But, alas, they wouldn’t let patients into the kitchens.” She bats her hand into the air dismissively, causing her rows of bracelets to clang about. “The doctors and their silly rules, they simply would not budge.”

“I haven’t baked in a long time. I don’t know if it’ll be the same,” Peeta says faintly as his fingernail traces into the grain of the wood table.

I shrug. “Then it’ll be different.”

Who care’s if it is the same? Nothing is the same anymore.

* * *

_How did I get roped into this?_ I ask myself for the tenth time in that last half hour.

I look around at my fully occupied table. Worse still, it is not my kitchen table, but the table in the pretentious formal dining room.

When not just one but four men walked through my front door for dinner, all hopes of this night being bearable evaporated.

Thom, Colton, Sergeant Major Max, and Vern are seated around the table and chatting amiably with Peeta and Effie. Effie is in her element, the ultimate hostess. I have never been more grateful for that annoying talent. She is more than welcome to the task.

Colton is blatantly flirting with Effie, showering her in compliments and flashing his bright smile. And Effie, I’m stunned to be witnessing her superlative skills at seduction. Watching the two of them sporting with each other is like watching a train wreck: I can barely look aware. The others don’t appear to be at all bothered. The three remaining crew leaders are deep in a discussion with Peeta about building statuses and district infrastructure.

“We are beginning to receive proposals for business permits. There’s a lot of interest despite the lack of publicity,” Max apprises. Thom continues, “It’s surprising. District 12 seems to connect with people. A lot of folks want to be a part of whatever the new district becomes.”

“Will the types of shops be like they were before or will they be more like Capitol businesses?” Peeta inquires. The contrast of the two couldn’t be greater.

“It actually seems like it’ll be its own new style,” Thom answers and Vern elaborates, “There won’t be the same kind of fixation on a single district trade. We’re trying to build a district of opportunity and diversity.”

“Mmm, Peeta, this is delicious!” Colton licks butter from his top lip, sparing a moment to wink at Effie suggestively. After chewing the warm bread, he compliments, “I hope you’ll rebuild the bakery.”

Peeta blanches, his skin quickly loosing color. All conversations have stopped and are watching him, awaiting a response. I can tell he is floundering for an answer.

Don’t they understand that what they are asking is a painful subject? _Hey Peeta, you want to rebuild your dead family’s bakery? It’ll be great, good as new. Like the old one didn’t go up in flames with every person you cared about._

“That’s a question for another time.” My voice declares. I think these might be the first words I have spoken this entire meal. Thankfully, my tone clearly says that this in nonnegotiable and the topic is closed.

Effie fills the awkward silence with a barrage of opinions of what the district “simply must” include and ideas for designs and style. Colton seems genuinely captivated by the way she speaks. He watches, hypnotized by her passionate gestures and sparkling eyes.

This morphs into a discussion of the current plans for Plutarch’s grand Remembrance Day, which invigorates Effie. It’s as if she grows taller and her gestures grow wilder as she vocalizes a topic near and dear to her heart: party planning.

While she unknowingly interviews for a job on the celebration committee, I look over to Peeta.

To everyone else, he would seem fine, listening attentively with a pleasant expression painted on, but I can tell. His arms are flexed and I’d gamble his hands are fisted into his thighs. If he’s not careful, by the force he’s surely applying, he’ll leave a bruise. The previous conversation is still eating at him. The others have moved on, but he’s still trapped in thought of the Mellark Family Bakery.

I stretch my leg, reaching out under the table, and tap his foot with my own. I catch his slight jolt as he rejoins the present. He quickly looks up through his long eyelashes and offers a genuine smile.

Fighting to keep the corners of my mouth from mirroring it, I shove a forkful of food into my mouth and prepare for another uncomfortable hour of forced socialization.

* * *

“I’ve brought you something.”

Tonight’s dinner was thankfully much less troublesome than the last. Effie was in a rush, eating quickly so she could meet with Colton who promised to introduce her to ‘the ladies of the neighborhood’. After she twice checked her lipstick and flitted out the door, Peeta remained at the table. I put on the kettle and pull out the leaves of lemon balm picked from the garden to steep for tea. Carrying over two mugs, I find Peeta at the table with a small box placed in front of him.

“What is it?” I ask suspiciously. He shakes his head at my wariness and lifts the flap.

“I remembered something.” He pulls out a plate with a small cake painted in chocolate. “I missed your birthday.”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. _My birthday?_ I try and remember what day it is, but I can barely identify the current month. My bewilderment plays across my face and Peeta chuckles. “It was four days ago. You missed it too?”

My head bobs up and down. “Prim was the only one who ever remembered it. ”

He slides a fork across the table and plays with his own between his fingers.

“Ever since I was… hmm… seven I think, I always remembered it too.”

My eyebrows jump at that.

“It’s true. Your father came into the bakery to trade a squirrel for a simple shortbread cookie to surprise you for your birthday. After he left, I ran straight to my room and wrote down the date so I’d never forget. I’d develop these wild schemes to bake you cake and, despite you not even knowing who I was, I’d sweep you off your feet. But then, every year, I’d chicken out at the last minute.” He smiles guilelessly, eyes cast down at the cake. “It only took me a decade.”

I load my fork and take a bite. The frosting reminds of that first cup I tasted of hot chocolate. Its rich creaminess was so decadent and for a moment it took me away from the Tribute train and the impeding horror of the Games.

“This is unbelievable,” I moan contently before returning for more. And then more. 

“I’m so stubborn and suspicious, back then I probably would have refused, thinking the worst. But if you had found a way to get me to taste this then… mmm I’d have been hard-pressed to put up much of a fight.”

My finger swipes up the side of the cake, bypassing the fork to filch more frosting. “So good.”

He beams, chest swelling up in pride. “I’m glad they couldn’t touch those memories.”

I swallow another bite. I never really understood what Snow did to Peeta when he was _hijacked_.

“Is that what they did? Tampered with your memories?”

Peeta puts down his fork and speaks pedantically. “The doctors referred to it as _corrupting_ them. They took video and audio recordings and reprogrammed their own versions of events that overwrote the real ones. Sometimes reinforced certain ones with pain or drugs. They seemed so real, unquestionable. It wasn’t until I could distinguish the shiny quality that I could tell something was wrong. The doctors don’t know if the originals are gone forever or just buried.”

He fidgets with the fork a frown forming. “I think there is _something_ still there from the real memories. When you sent my sketchbook, there were images that didn’t match the shiny memories but were so familiar. I knew them. It’s like,” he stops to find the right words, “like even though the specific memory is gone, the emotion, the flavor behind it is burned into my mind. I can’t trust many of my memories from the last few years, but it seems I can at least trust my intuition.”

It sounds miserable. I really could only ever trust myself, how would I live if I couldn’t even do that? Peeta has layers of false Capitol memories, shades of the feelings of the lost original memories, and the new alternative images from the tapes his doctors have shown him - three realities fighting against each other. His mind must feel like a hurricane.

I wrap my hands around the steaming mug, overwhelmed by guilt.

“I know I wasn’t any help after you were rescued. I- I don’t have a good excuse, I just couldn’t handle it. I’d… I’d like to do better this time- if it is something you’d want. I know there are things that can’t be answered with the footage of propos or the Games.”

“You’d do that?” His voice is small and tinged with thirst.

“Come on.”

I stand, grabbing my mug, and lead him to the couch in the living room. Might as well be comfortable while we have such an uncomfortable conversation. “I’ll try my best.”

He settles in on the cushion beside me. “Um, okay.” He leans over, elbows on his knees and hands gripped together. “Should I just dive in?”

I nod.

“Okay. Well… I have memories of us on a rooftop. I think it’s before one of the Games – both maybe? The conversations… well, they’re all upsetting.”

He flinches at whatever the memory holds. I definitely don’t want to know what lies Snow created. “They’re all shiny, so I know they’re not real, but I’d really like to know what they are supposed to be. When I picture the garden, ignoring the false memory, I have positive feelings… almost peaceful, maybe? I wish I understood why.”

_Because it was our only sanctuary. A sanctuary to breathe, to escape, for honesty, for secret-telling, and for sunsets._

“Do you remember why we would go up to the roof?” I ask, curious if he can recall its context.

He shakes his head. “Not really. I remember it was private.”

“That’s truer than you are probably thinking. It was the only place we could freely talk. Between the strong wind and the chimes, the Capitol microphones couldn’t pick up what we said but we always had a feeling they were still watching. You first took me there after you covered up for me recognizing the Avox assigned to our apartment.”

“Lavinia,” Peeta mutters, rubbing his eyes utterly haunted. _How could I forget? Stupid, stupid Katniss._

“Um, we were also out there the night before the first Games, watching the crowds on the street. We um,” I pause, “we had a… disagreement I guess you’d call it. We didn’t really part on good terms.” He tilts his head to face me, “Why?”

“You talked about how you didn’t plan on surviving. You said you only hoped to,” I take a steadying breath, “you only hoped to die as yourself, that the Games wouldn’t turn you into a monster. That’s when you told me that you wanted to show the Capitol that you were more than just a ‘piece in their Games’. I’ve thought about that again and again. At the time it just made me feel so selfish, ashamed really, that I was thinking about strategies to survive when you were so… so virtuous.” I close my eyes and fall back into the stuffed cushion. “You should have been the Mockingjay.”

Peeta mimics my movement tossing his body back to relax into the pillows. He suddenly smirks eyes sparkling, “I don’t think the outfit would have looked as good on me.”

The humor takes me by surprise and soon the two of us are giggling like children until we settle down and simply sit side by side.

I turn my head to get a good look at him then pull out the leather strap binding my braid. “I have an idea,” I say while I unwind the plait. He watches the movement looking utterly stupefied.

“It might be foolish,” I add, his eyes full of questions.

“Scoot over,” I instruct, “No like this.” I reposition him so I can lay my head in his lap. I tilt my stubborn chin up to view him from below. He looks down at me like a petrified deer. “Does this feel familiar?”

“I- I-“ his fingers twitch, wanting to thread them into my hair. _There you go Peeta; the memory is still in there somewhere._

"Picture a sunset." I advise. 

“Why?” His voice shakes. “Why do I know this?”

I pull in his hovering hand to remove the distance, diving his fingers into my tresses.

“This is what we did on our final day on the rooftop. Haymitch and Effie were still peeved at us for our Private Sessions so we were released from interview prep. We escaped to the roof and spent the day picnicking. You sketched and I weaved vines, we played catch with the force field, and you woke me up to watch the sun set together. It was a perfect day.”

Above me, whispered words pour forth, “I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever.”

I snap up and spin around to face him.

“How do you know those words?”

“I just do… I just- I just do!” he exclaims. “It’s in here,” he points his finger rhythmically against the middle of his forehead. “ Some part of what’s real is still safe in there.”

He snatches both of my hands and plants a loud kiss on the top of each palm.

“Don’t you see Katniss? They couldn’t erase everything! It’s still there. Somewhere it’s still there. I’m still me.”

* * *

“Can I join you?”

A deep voice calls from behind me. I squint into the sunlight and see Peeta’s looking at me sheepishly. It’s the first I’ve seen him since he cheerfully ran home, anxious to draw what he had rediscovered while we were on the couch. He’s come prepared this afternoon, wearing well-worn clothing ideal for manual labor. I lift a hand, black with soil, beckoning him my way.

“What are we planting today?” He asks as he bends down to join me on the ground.

Seedlings surround me, each growing in odd containers I found around the house to start the seeds.

“These will be tomatoes,” I gesture to the collection to my left and then point to the other rapidly growing sprouts gathered a few feet away. “Those should be pole beans. How about you come behind me and drop them in as I dig?”

Between the two of us, we find a good rhythm: dig, drop, cover, repeat.

“What brings you out here today?” I ask.

“Effie is going to be spending most of the day making calls. And I love her dearly, but I needed to escape. It can be a lot.” He shakes his head with a soft smile. “It’s okay that I’m here, right?”

“Of course it is,” I reply without pause. “You’re welcome anytime.”

“You might regret that invitation. My house is simultaneously too noisy and too quiet. Painting helps, but I still feel the urge to escape outdoors all the time.”

I grin at that. It may be new for Peeta, but I’ve been that way my entire life.

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

I carefully study him after I finish the final hole. His eyes are tired, dark circles matching my own, and his pallor belies what should be his natural glow. “You’ve been locked up too long – the Capitol, 13, and then with those doctors. You need sunshine.”

I drag the hose over and water the newest additions.

“I don’t do well if I’m stuck indoors too long. I’m afraid of slipping backwards. The best part of this garden is that it gives me a reason to get up and work outside everyday without having to shoot something.”

“I like keeping my hands busy,” he discloses. “My mind doesn’t feel so… disordered when my hands are occupied. That’s why the sketching helped so much while I was in the facility.”

“Finnick tied knots,” I remind him.

Peeta’s drawing, Haymitch’s drinking, me and my pearl - it isn’t a strange concept. Each of us had a coping mechanism. Finn’s stupid length of rope found its way into both my and Peeta’s hands when times were tough.

I stop spraying and look into the distance. “We do what we can to keep going.”

I turn back and meet Peeta’s gaze. His eyes tell me he understands me in a way that others cannot. Only someone who has lived through and lost all that we have could understand how having a will to carry on is a daily battle.

“We’ve spent a long time being forced into things. I got used to not expecting to live to see twenty. Now…” He shakes his head rapidly, causing his locks to tumble into his eyes. “Now what do we do?”

He looks at me, pleading for an answer.

As if I know, I’m just as lost as he is.

I place my hand on his forearm and shrug. “I don’t know Peeta. I’ve spent my life protecting Prim. Sae told me I lived _for_ my sister. I built my world around her and every decision I made started and ended with her. Then one day she was gone.”

_Don’t you dare start crying, Katniss._

“So I spend each day trying to find something else to live for because I know it would be an insult to so many if I just gave up.”

I roll up the hose and return it to its hook. “Some days it’s to watch the sunrise from the treetops, other days it’s to teach Samson something new or help Sae carry supplies from the train. Recently it’s been you.”

After that regrettable admission, I refuse to look up. Turning around, I walk over to the pile of long branches I gathered last week. Several vegetables, such as the pole beans, are going to need a trellis to climb. With some twine at the top, the branches can connect into a tall cone. A shadow passes over me and I know Peeta has followed me. He doesn’t say anything, just takes the growing bundle of branches from my hands and holds them in place so I can tie them. Time passes and the sun inches westward.

“Katniss, why did you become the Mockingjay?”

The question takes me by surprise. How long has he wondering at that? To most, my becoming the figurehead of the rebellion was a given. To me, however, his confusion at how I would agree to such a thing is the mark of someone who knows me well.

“I didn’t want to.”

I justify. “I thought the entire idea ridiculous. Why would anyone listen to me? The whole idea was mad. Plus, I was still furious about all the secrets. How could they not have told us anything about their plans? To trust us so little,” I scoff. “They left us hopeless to protect ourselves – and worse, they made it impossible for us to protect our families. Then they had the audacity to expect me to be some advertisement for the rebellion. Well,” I shrug, “it shouldn’t surprise you that I wasn’t easy to work with.”

I tighten the wrapped twine in frustration. “But there was also some part of me, way down deep inside, that knew I needed to do whatever I could to stop Snow. I had to try and fix the wrongs my father had subtly raised me to recognize, and if being the Mockingjay was how I was to honor his memory, then so be it.”

I look up to the empty window of her former bedroom. “But it wasn’t until Prim reminded me how important I was to their cause that I actually felt okay about agreeing. She thought I could demand anything and they’d agree to it.”

“What was so important?”

“You can’t guess?”

I look at him and almost laugh. It’s obvious, isn’t it?

“You.”

That clearly shocks and confuses him.

“After your first interview, people were angry, calling you a traitor. They didn’t understand and I was – I was worried. So I demanded your immunity and that of all the captured tributes. Well, I got in a mood and also expanded it to include permission to hunt, killing Snow, and keeping the cat. You would have been much more diplomatic.”

“ _That_ was the Mockingjay Deal?” Peeta scoffs out and I confirm it with a lazy nod. He mumbles, “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“Next thing I knew they had me in a pound of makeup, full costume, and on a stage pretending I was talking to, I really don’t know, maybe troops mid-battle. It was a disaster. Was any of that footage included in the tapes you saw from the war?” I ask, both curious and mortified at the prospect.

“No, there was some raw footage but it must have been from later.”

“You should be thankful you didn’t have to watch my performance. I don’t have your talent. I was always terrible at reading Effie’s speeches and you know I’m a bad liar.” I wonder if he remembers telling me that during the first Games. “Anyway, they ended up having a huge meeting where Haymitch led a rousing group discussion about my atrocious acting skills and how my performance would kill the rebellion.”

That makes Peeta laugh. I’d like him to stay smiling so I won’t mention that their solution was to toss me into combat.

For the next few minutes we work next to each other in quiet contentedness.

“You said you wanted to honor you father’s memory? What did you mean by that?” Peeta wonders.

I consider how best to answer. My pa never exactly _told_ me anything specifically, but as I got older and experienced more, I realized he said a lot without saying anything.

“Pa had a way of hiding important lessons inside the different stories he’d tell me. Years after he was gone, I’d think back to some of my favorites and realize that the stories weren’t nearly as simple as they appeared and definitely not Capitol-approved.”

I try to think of an example, when my eyes land on the row of herbs. “Here, follow me.”

I lead him over to a feathery fern-like patch. “When I was maybe eight or nine, my father came across one of these plants.” I break off one of the thicker green stalks. “He broke off a stem just like this. Here, smell,” I hold it out so he can catch the pungent scent of licorice.

“Memorable right?” I smile as I smell it myself, refreshing the memory of so long ago. “Pa told me an incredible tale supposedly from the beginning of time. He said there were once powerful giants and a king that ruled over everything. The giants decided that the world seemed empty so they gathered up mud and shaped the first humans. But the king, he believed that humans were only ever meant to be slaves. They should be solely dependent on the king and must make sacrifices to the king in order to receive protection or food. But one of the giants, the one who shaped the humans, didn’t think it was right. So one night, he snuck into the castle and stole the gift of fire for his people. He hid it within a hollow stalk of fennel, and carried it down to the humans. With fire, they could keep their families warm, prepare food, and forge weapons all on their own. With the stolen fire they took control of their destinies.”

I twirl the stalk between my fingers. “As I child all I heard was a magical story that helped me remember how to identify wild Fennel, but as I got older, I saw my own life in the story. What were we but slaves to Snow? Sending our children as sacrifices in exchange for Capitol food and nonexistent protection.”

I stare down at the stalk wondering again why my father taught me such treasonous things.

“So you became the Mockingjay and delivered your own fire to the rebellion.” It isn’t a question.

“Maybe,” is all I reply.

* * *

The bedroom walls flash white, lighting up the world around me, before plummeting back into darkness. For two days, Peeta joined me in the garden, laboring under blue skies until the weather undermined our plans, sending us indoors by changing those skies to grey. At first, the rain fell gently, but early this morning the wind came, rattling the shutters in warning before the lightning arrived. All afternoon, lightning and thunder have played an angry game of tag.

I pull my bedclothes close. I miss my quilt – well, Peeta’s quilt. I should have kept it; he might not have noticed. I shuffle over to the window, covers trailing behind me, and look across the lane towards Peeta’s house.

The house is dark except for a soft glow coming from the kitchen.

_What is that?_

I drop the corners of the blanket, unlatch the window, and throw them open.

Smoke. That’s smoke.

Without a second thought, my feet are running down the stairs and out the door. The sky flashes as my toes hit the flooding road. With each step, water splashes up my legs and pounding rain soaks my hair. By the second crack of thunder my feet touch the wood of his front porch.

The front door is unlocked and I maintain my frantic pace as I tear through it. The hallway is hazy from smoke but the layout is the same as my own house so I know my way sightless. As I hurry towards the kitchen, thick air hits me like a wave and a trail of muddied feet is placed in its wake.

Pulling my soddened tunic over my nose and mouth I try to locate the fire, but the stovetop is clear and nothing appears alight. I choke on the fumes, coughing uncontrollably. There are two windows in the kitchen and I force open both to air out the room. The violent winds of the storm ease in clearing the smoke and soon I can see its source. Black plumes pour through the seams of the oven. I reach the knobs and twist them to off. I’ll deal with its contents later. For now my first concern is the huddled mass shaking in the corner of the room.

I want to rush over, but my instincts temper me to approach with caution. Fallen chairs and shattered ceramics block the path to him. I toe around the hazards slowly nearing the boy curled in the fetal position and mumbling incoherently.

“Peeta…” I call out lowly.

His hands are clutching his head, fingers digging into his scalp as he pulses back and forth. This must be an episode. His mind is someplace else entirely. Another flash of lightning bolts across the sky and my ear can barely make out his words.

“No, no, no, no I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me go. Katniss is coming, she promised. She told me. She told me she would be back. I have to be there. She’ll see me at midnight. At Midnight. She promised she’d be there at midnight.”

The words twist into my heart: the end of the Quell, where it all went wrong.

I’m afraid to touch him and make things worse. About a foot from him, I kneel down onto my hands and knees, crouching as low as I can to appear nonthreatening.

He whimpers, “Please don’t take me back there – it hurts, please stop, it hurts. Why are you doing this? Why?” He repeats the question over and over as his body seizes as if being electrocuted.

How do I help him? How do I make this stop? He repeatedly gasps for air and pound at his chest.

“I can’t- I can’t- I can’t breathe.”

My sense of self-preservation finally surrenders to my need to protect him.

Crawling over, I remove the distance between us.

His eyes are wide, seeing something terrible from long ago. He is panicking, gasping like a fish out of water and I don’t know what to do. The only thing my frenzied mind can come up with is to grab his head and pull it in flush against my chest.

“Shhh, you’re safe, you’re safe Peeta, I swear. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when I promised. I’m here now; I’m here. Close your eyes for me. You can trust me. Close your eyes.”

His eyelids seem to war between open and shut.

“That’s it; close them all the way.” I pull his ear against me. “Can you hear my heart? I bet it’s loud. That- that is real. Can you feel me breathing? Slow deep breaths- try to follow, okay?” I take a large but shaky breath in. “In,” I blow it out through my mouth in a slow hiss, “and out. And again, in… and out.” I repeat it over and over for what feels like hundreds of times until his breathing finally slows and begins to mirror my own.

With each slower breath, more of his weight eases into me. His hands untangle from his hair.

I notice his right hand, which has moved to tightly grip my tunic, is bleeding into its pale fabric. He must have cut himself during the fray.

Peeta is not small, and between my slight build and rain-soaked body I struggle to keep him upright. I feel his head move as he tries to pull back to look at me. I watch as his eyes lock onto mine and witness the moment where his pupils dilate and his mind is triggered by the sight of me: mutt Katniss _._

_You won’t hurt me Peeta. I can feel it. Don’t let me down._

I still prepare for the blow, for the attack that I know he is programmed to execute. I feel his hands clench into my sides like steel claws. His grip is firm and desperate, but it is not violent. He is locked in and frozen in place; his eyelids are clamped so tightly his entire face grimaces while his mouth voicelessly mouths, “Not real. Not real. Not real.”

I decide to take another risk and lean forward, tenderly touching my forehead to his, offering a small anchor to reality. I close my eyes, ignore the cage-like grip around my waist, and force my breathing to remain slow and calm.

We sit, fastened together in silence, the rain hammering down out the open window. My mind pulls me towards a memory of my father from when I was not much older than four. A storm was shaking our ramshackle home and I was hiding under my blankets hands covering my ears to muffle the crashes of thunder. My father wrapped me in his arms, pulled away one of my hands, placed his lips next to my ear and sang.

I keep my eyes fastened, angle my lips to his ear, and release its melody:

_We'll find peace yet again, dear one, when over us_

_The sky will be bright, and the grove will be green,_

_And the visions of life will be lovely before us_

_As the showers of springtime wash the world clean_

_We'll find peace yet again, when the pain, disconcerting_

_The calm of our minds in a moment like this,_

_Shall soon melt away, like the tears of our parting,_

_Or live only memory to heighten our bliss._

_We have clung to each other when a hope scarce could find us;_

_We've clung when our hearts were the lightest of all,_

_And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,_

_When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthrall. *_

Harsh sobs burst out with such force the anguish feels as if it could burrow under my own skin. With pants more than breaths, his lungs are unable to catch up with his heaving emotions. I pull his head back down to my chest and stroke his hair like I would when Prim would wake from a nightmare.

“You’re okay, Peeta. You can get through this; you’re doing so well. Stay with me. We’re in your kitchen in 12. Nowhere else, just your kitchen in 12. I know you can hear me, just listen to the sound of my voice. Stay here with me.” I continue to murmur passing thoughts and encouragements as his cries diminish into wet sniffles.

“I hurt you,” a hoarse voice utters miserably. I peer down and see his fingers tracing over the dark red smeared across my tunic.

“No Peeta, you didn’t hurt me. It’s yours - you were bleeding when I found you.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Effie got stranded while she was visiting Colton – said she didn’t want to get her hair wet. It- it was so quiet here alone. I couldn’t sleep. I was – I was trying to bake some bread, but the storm… the storm… so loud. I got confused. Forgot where I was. Then there was smoke everywhere. Why was – oh, no! I burned it didn’t I?”

I nod against the top of his head. “But the smoke is what warned me you were in trouble, so I’m grateful for it.”

He tries to pull away. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m not safe. I could have killed you.”

I refuse to let him retreat. “No, Peeta. You were a lot of things- scared, disoriented, in pain- but you were never a threat. I know when I’m not safe; it’s my greatest skill. Listen to me,” I tug his face to meet mine, “I was never in any danger.”

His deep blue eyes well up, reminding me of afternoon’s spent fishing in my father’s lake.

“If I had hurt you, I could never live with myself. I already see myself strangling you in 13 or attacking you in the Capitol. They never go away, they play over and over again.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

I swallow thickly and hold him closer.

“I know it’s hard. I know you’re feeling like you can’t possibly take all this pain any longer. But I need you to remember something. When it comes to making it through unlivable days, you, Peeta, have a perfect track record.”

“How?”

He looks so lost. So tired.

Not so long ago, I asked that very same question. What was it? Only three, four months? I was lost, drowning in a sea of troubles and Sae helped me to find my own way to the shore.

_How did she do it?_ It wasn’t magic, but it gave a path to follow until I could do so on my own. I try to remember the words she said to me. I can pay it forward. Someone else is drowning now, and it would be a privilege to this time be the one helping them find their way.

“Well, we’ll start with cleaning you up,” I answer, with more confidence than I possess. “I’m no doctor, but I’ve been known to be a dab hand at healing in a pinch.” I pull back to get a clearer look at him. “Then, we’ll tidy up in here so Effie doesn’t have a stroke when she returns from her overnight ‘visit’ with Colton.”

He sniffs out a small laugh and finally looks up at me.

“After that, I think we’ll send you back to the kitchen so you can teach me how to make a loaf of bread.” I smirk, “I’d warn you that it’s likely I’ll be terrible at it, but honestly, I can’t be worse than the tragedy that is currently occupying your oven.”

I stand up and extend my hands to help pull him up off the floor.

“We’ve got a perfect track record to keep, Peeta. Come on. Together.”

* * *

_*Adapted from We'll Meet Yet Again by Henry Scott Riddell (1798 - 1870)_


	24. CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV

New routines begin to form as springtime blooms around us. Peeta and Effie come over for breakfast then Samson and I head out to the woods. After lunch, I work in the garden where Peeta begins regularly joining me. He works alongside me most days, but, thankfully, is able to tell when I’m having one of my bad days and need solitude. Those days, he pulls out his pad and quietly sketches from the porch. Peeta and Effie return for dinner and every so often Haymitch will show up to liven up the evening.

Peeta’s questions continue, though instead of an inquisition he’ll merely flip open to a pencil sketch and ask me if I know what it is and what really happened. Most are random, unexciting moments when compared to so many others we have shared, however from the oddities found in the drawings, I can deduce that the tampered versions he has in his mind are much more eventful. If I point out an error or something I say conflicts with his memory, he’ll rapidly jot notes in the margins.

I begin to realize that my reclusiveness is manageable when I’m only with one person at a time. Peeta has commented on how I can be open when it’s just us but withdrawn, or worse, defensive when in company. I’m not built to perform for a crowd. It’s not surprising to me. I spent the years between 11 and 16 pretty much speaking to only three people: Gale in the woods, Madge at school, and Prim everywhere else. Even at the Hob, if too many people started gathering near Sae’s stand I’d quickly slip away.

When I mention that the thought of having to be in front of or socialize with any group of people has always made me want to reach for my bow, he nods as if that answers some great mystery on his mind. It’s a look I’ll often catch him making. Peeta studying me like a puzzle he’s yet to solve. I have a feeling he’s using our time together to further correct his memories. I’m sure there are some so awful he will never ask, so if this helps, so be it.

By the end of her first week in 12, Effie landed herself a position as the coordinator for Plutarch’s July celebration and any complaints about District 12 were never spoken aloud again. She cheerfully flitted around the district, penning pages of notes, expounding on the great potential and irresistibility of the project, and making nonstop phone calls. By the end of the second week, she is confident in Peeta’s resettlement and, although she tried to hide it, eager to meet with Plutarch’s team to continue her planning. Her genuine disinterest in leaving Peeta was heartwarming but there was no way either of us was going to keep her here, both for her sake and our sanity. This is Effie Trinket on a mission, and we both know it’s best to stay out of her way.

As I hugged her goodbye at the train depot, she made me promise to watch over Peeta twice as much in her stead. Peeta told her we loved her and I went so far as to softly tell her we would miss her and she would always be welcome. With teary cheeks and fluttering hands, she boarded the train back to the Capitol.

Not wanting to let Effie down, I try and make sure, without his notice, that Peeta is managing the change. During the day, he appears much the same as he was in the weeks prior, however, at night, I’ll watch from my window as his lights stay on late into the morning. By the third consecutive night of insomniac habits, I can no longer stop myself.

With an assuredness that I do not actually possess, I stand at his front door and knock. His surprise is expected I suppose, it is well after midnight, and although he tries to convince me he’s fine and I should head to bed, I won’t have it.

“Nope, you’re coming with me,” I insist, grabbing his shirt to tug him along.

I maneuver through his house as if it is my own, not answering his questions about where I am taking him. He needs a distraction, something calming: a change of scenery.

His eyes widen as I enter his bedroom, but I am on a mission and will not be stopped. Not paying attention to the room around me, I walk straight to the window and push it wide open. Sticking my head out the window, I check to make sure the roof is built the same as my own then twist my chin up to look at the sky.

“There isn’t a single cloud up there night.”

He looks at me as if I’ve grown a pair of antlers.

“That’s great, Katniss. Just swell. You mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“You need to put on some shoes,” is all I answer.

He looks confounded.

I quite like making him speechless.

As he slides on his sneakers I slip out the window and onto the scarcely pitched roof below.

“Katniss,” he says sounding worried, “where did you go?”

I walk back to the window and poke my head through. “Come on!”

He shakes his head to refuse. “You want to take a one-legged man out onto a roof?”

I blow out a scoff, dismissing him. “You’ve never let that stop you before.”

I lean onto the window frame on my forearms. “Come on. I would never take you someplace where you’d be in danger.”

After a few seconds of deliberation, he tentatively makes his way through the window to join me. Once his feet are solidly planted and he realizes the safe rake, he calms. I lead him over to the perfect spot towards the center of the house, then recline back, my face to the stars. He peers down at me with a look I don’t understand.

“You’re missing the view.”

He silently settles down beside me.

“I always like to stargaze when I can't settle my thoughts. Even the biggest problems seem so small when compared to all this.”

“The moon is just a sliver tonight. It makes the stars seem so much brighter,” he observes.

“My pa always loved a full moon. He said Grandpa loved crescent moons because they reminded him of a bow, but my pa was like my great grandfather and loved the full moon.”

“Did he say why?” 

I softly laugh to cover up my embarrassment, “Pa said it was like looking up and seeing his daughter winking back at him. He would tease that there used to be three moons but I swallowed two as a baby and now they’re stuck in my eyes.” I shake my head at his silliness. “He called me his little moon,” I say fondly.

“I can see that.” He looks into my eyes intensely. “They aren’t the coal gray of typical Seam eyes; they shine… like polished silver. Never been able to mix a paint to properly match them. Even now, they almost glow.”

I drop my voice to a whisper and confide, “During the war, I’d sometimes look up at the full moon and think of the pearl from the Quell. I could pull it out of my pocket and hold it up side-by-side. But where the moon was blotched and speckled, the pearl was perfect, completely flawless.”

“You carried it with you?” His voice sounds fragile.

“All the way until the bombs dropped in City Circle.”

It was in the pocket of my uniform where I once stored the key to Peeta’s handcuffs. When I woke up in the burn unit, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me where my clothes went. Where _our pearl_ went. Another thing lost to fire.

“Why?” He probes.

“It was the last thing you gave me, the only way I had to keep you close.” I shake my head, pushing away the swelling emotion inside me. “Sometimes I’d cling to it as if… as if it was the only bit of you I had left. As though if I kept it safe, you would- I don’t know, it would keep you safe too. Stupid right? But when you gave it to me, I made myself a promise. I swore I would get you home safe.”

It’s odd. After the war ended, my desperation to hold tight to the pearl drifted away. It did its duty, it was a promise kept. It served its purpose faithfully and melted away when it was no longer needed. And its flawlessness, it didn’t feel right given all that happened and all that Peeta and I had become. Both of us have far too many scars marring our flesh to ever match its unblemished iridescence. That perfect pearl represented a version of us long gone.

“Have you ever looked for pictures in the stars?” I query, shifting subjects. With his artistic eye, he could probably imagine fantastic shapes and images.

“No. Is there something hiding up there?”

“Of course. They’re more interesting than the ones in clouds. Look, just to the right of the moon.” I point, “There is the Big Bear being pursued by seven hunters. Well only three can keep up. See them trailing behind?”

“It looks like a ladle.”

I tilt my head the opposite direction. “I’m a huntress; it’s a bear. But okay, Mr. Baker; in that case, if you look above the big ladle there is a smaller one hanging upside-down. See it?”

“Yeah.”

“The brighter star at the end of its handle is the North Star. Pa called it the Chief Star. He said the reason it was Chief was because it remains in its place in the north as it directs all of the other stars across the sky. It maintains a schedule and steady order to their movements. Like any good leader, the Chief Star is trustworthy and dependable. If you’re lost, you can have faith that it will help you find your way home.”

“Is that true?” Peeta asks and I laugh.

“Obviously not the Chief part, but yes, I’ve used it to determine which direction is north. Same way you can figure out east and west by the path of the sun.”

“What else is out there?” He asks, turning his face to warmly smile at me.

“Hmm…” I scan the night sky for another.

“Oh, I always liked this one. Over there, to the right, with the straight line and split tail, that’s Great Grandpa’s lost arrow.” I reach over and take his finger to follow the shape in the sky.

“Pa said that a long time ago the very first Everdeen archer boasted that he could shoot the moon. He obviously missed his mark and the lost arrow is now displayed, warning all Everdeens of the folly of pride.”

I keep his hand in mine while I continue to point out a more animals, before quietly lying side-by-side gazing skyward, fingers intertwined.

“Did you ever do this with Gale?”

He asks softly and I hate how vulnerable Peeta suddenly sounds.

_Gale._

I’ve enjoyed avoiding thoughts of him. I know Peeta has a lot of questions about him but up until now it has been an unspoken understanding that Gale shall remain unspoken. But if I want Peeta to stay, to keep this closeness, there’s a lot he should probably know, things he’s never understood. Then again, I never went to any trouble to ease his misconceptions.

He was always so bitter about Gale’s and my history. It wasn’t fair at all. The two of them made me so angry. Why was I the bad person for not wanting a romance with anyone? I was barely 16. I just wanted to live my life, content to be single forever and avoid the painful entanglements of husbands who eventually die in tragic mining accidents and children reaped every summer. Just because they wanted more, why did it mean my goals and values had to bend to their will?

But I, being me, decidedly ignored confronting the issue _._ Even now, when I’ve matured and can internally admit to feeling more than I ever would have before, the idea of discussing my _romantic feelings_ makes me cringe.

Peeta looked at Gale and I, and saw a simple situation that would fuel his jealousy. Ironically, Gale probably did the same. But the realities of Gale’s and my partnership was nothing close to simple. Do I know _how_ to put words to it even now? My feelings and understandings have shifted over time, but during my months of isolation in 12, I feel I’ve found more clarity. At least more than I had when I was floundering in the middle of the unknown.

“No.”

I pull my hand away and nervously tug at the ends of my sweater, stretching the sleeves over my hands. “Um...Gale wouldn’t have understood. He’d have found my stories childish.”

“But they aren’t.” It’s a statement but his tone is questioning. “They all have morals underneath the surface.”

I laugh without humor. “That’s the problem. Gale never was one for digging too deep. To him, if a lesson existed it would have been said directly. Things were black and white, one side or the other. And he’d scoff at anything resembling the sentimental.

“Honestly, I don’t know if we would have become friends if he hadn’t realized I could shoot.” It hurts a bit to admit that fact. “He looked at me and I could tell right away that all he saw was another scrawny Seam girl. But we both had our families depending on us, and where I had two, he had four mouths to feed. He needed to learn how to use a bow so I traded him lessons in snares.”

I look out to my forest – to what was once _our_ forest.

“Over time, we grew to respect each other. With years, we eventually even trusted each other, relied on each other.” For a long time, hunting together was the only time I felt happy. More importantly, when I had him covering my back, it was one of the only times I felt safe.

My voice cracks with feeling. “No one else could understand what it felt like to single-handedly be responsible for your family’s survival. It’s a constant burden that never eases. To be able to share that with someone… it kept me sane.”

“What changed? You don’t even speak of him anymore.” His voice hushes, “Was it the bombing?”

His question confuses me. Shouldn’t he be pleased I keep my distance? There are some things about Peeta I will always struggle to understand. His extraordinary ability to selflessly care for others is one of them.

“Not just the bombing.” I fight the images of my sister being swallowed by a ball of flames. Things had changed long before that.

“Everything was different after the Games.”

I close my eyes and picture our last goodbye and then the welcome home. The difference was almost tangible.

“I don’t think Gale ever understood that I, that we, were changed by the Games. He had these expectations, things I owed him that I just couldn’t meet. To him, I survived, I _won_ ,” using the word makes me nauseous, “and he _expected_ me to go back to being the Katniss I was before. But my world had changed. I was different… I was _broken_ , and there was no gluing the pieces back into the shape of the girl I was before.”

I turn to meet his gaze.

“ _You_ understand don’t you?”

“Yes,” is all he replies.

“So then the war came and all the hypothetical arguments we used to have became real. He wasn’t just an angry kid in the woods dreaming of his revenge against the government anymore. He wanted me to… to share his rage, that destructive fire that could bring down whatever it might cross. Any compassion or mercy I might feel, those were weaknesses I needed to control.”

I try to blink past the welling emotion. “At times I thought maybe he was right, maybe I was weak. So I tried to be a good soldier, a good little Mockingjay, but I never could turn off the sound of my father’s voice playing in my head. My pa didn’t raise me to be like that. So much of what Gale saw as weakness, my father would have considered a mark of strength. The opposite is true too. 'The man who needs to wield the biggest weapon, who needs to crush every enemy to feel powerful, he’s the weak one'.”

I shake my head and think of Pa's 'three things' every Everdeen hunter must uphold. “My father raised me to be _respectful, patient, and humble_. Why was it so wrong to want to live up to his ideals?”

Silence falls between us. Peeta muted by the flood of personal information I have uncharacteristically divulged. I look to the sky. It’s getting late, or rather, by this hour, more like it’s early.

I extend my arm and point towards another cluster of stars.

“There, to the south, that’s the scorpion. Every spring, the scorpion stars chase the huntsman out of the sky. But in January, he was still up there. I’d look up and think a lot about that story back then.”

Peeta turns to his side, laying his head on his arm like a pillow. “Will you tell me?”

I trace my finger along the curving path of the scorpions tail.

“There once was a huntress who was a… a collection of opposites. She was mighty with a bow, but was known as a protector of nature and its creatures. She was a bringer of death and yet known as a protector of innocents. She swore to never have children and yet was known as the protector of mothers during childbirth. She spent her days and nights enjoying the woods in solitude.

“One day, she met a huntsman. He was strong and handsome, and the two began to hunt together. They would race and challenge each other.” My voice grows hoarse, “They were partners.

“But the huntsman, he didn’t believe in protecting the creatures of the forest. He enjoyed the kill, the victory of it. He even boasted that he could kill all the animals on earth. _Horrified_ , the huntress knew she had to defend those under her protection from his threats. So she called forth a giant scorpion, silent and lethal, who snuck upon her hunting partner, striking him dead.”

I lick my lips. “This past winter, I’d watch as the huntsman drifted out of the sky. I spent nights trying to understand why, after all that had happened, why would the huntress place her deceased partner into the sky. Maybe it was a punishment. That he should forever be running in fear of one of the creatures he swore to destroy. Or maybe it was to keep him safe. She couldn’t let go of her once-friend no matter what he did, so- so she saved his memory forever in the stars. Or was it a reminder? A harsh reminder that… that the one she trusted most, betrayed… betrayed _everything_ she stood for.”

Something warm brushes against my cheek.

Peeta’s hand reaches over to wipe away a tear that I wasn’t aware had escaped.

“The ones we love the most have the greatest power to hurt us,” he speaks gently.

_Like me._

Peeta offered his devotion, he threw himself into my power, and I crushed it. No, not crushed, I took it for granted and killed it with a thousand tiny cuts.

“I’m so sorry, Peeta,” I whisper into the darkness, ashamed.

He breathes in suddenly, “No, Katniss, I didn’t mean you. I was thinking of my family.”

I don’t say anything, guilty that I felt relieved that his comment was directed at his flesh and blood and not at me.

“You know, no matter how many bruises my mother left, I kept on wishing for her to love me the way I dreamed a mother should love her child. I kept foolishly hoping one day I would be a son she would want, and each day I would see the disappointment in her eyes. Her words often stung more than her slaps, but I’d just turn the other cheek and wait for the next.”

I reach out my hand across the shingles to grasp his palm.

“My father, I thought he was the best of men. I followed him around the bakery, learning every one of his skills and mimicking his mannerisms. I wanted to be _just like him_. He loved and encouraged me enough for two parents. But then, when my mother was on a rampage, he would just… disappear. How could his inaction hurt as much as her rolling pin?

“He was supposed to protect me, that’s what fathers are supposed to do. Sure, he’d be there to help me off the floor or with a bandage, but he never _once_ stopped her. _Why_?” He asks the night sky. “Was I not worth it? Was it my fault? I’ve asked myself that question my entire life, and now I’ll never have the chance to find out the answer. Every one of them is gone, dead and buried who knows where. I wish _I_ could look up to the stars and see them up there, that I could at least find some piece of them somewhere… anywhere.”

Finding the words is near impossible.

“Do you- would you- would it help if you could visit them and say goodbye?”

I knew I would have to admit to this eventually, but explaining my actions seems so much harder now than it did when the thought of seeing Peeta again was a long shot.

“But I can’t. I mean I know they’re in the Meadow with the rest of the district, Thom told me, but it’s not the same.”

I suppose it is time.

“I- I have to tell you something.”

Swallowing thickly, “I really hope you won’t be upset. I just- I just kept thinking about how I would feel if it was my family. And I couldn’t just stand by and watch. I had to do _something_. And- and I should have asked, I get that, but I didn’t know how and there wasn’t any time and I couldn’t just stand by and-“

“Katniss,” Peeta interrupts, “Please, just say it, whatever _it_ is. You’re rambling which is such a strange thing to witness I’m getting freaked.”

I take a strengthening breath. “I know where they’re buried. It’s not with the rest of the district.”

“Where are they? Katniss, tell me where my family is.” He starts to move, “I need to get down. I can't have this conversation here.” I follow him through the window to answer his questions on more solid ground.

“They’re buried near the Meadow, in a place all their own.” I explain simply.

“Show me.” He demands.

“Now?” I ask. “Peeta, it’s hours past midnight. I swear I’ll take you there. We can go first thing.”

He shakes his head repeatedly. “No. No, I need to go now. I’m not tired. Are you?”

“No.” I suppose I’m not.

We decide to venture through developing district instead of navigating the woods in the dark. I steal a coat from Peeta’s closet and pick up a pair of lanterns from my porch as we walk towards the Village gates. While we make our way through town, I try to explain my actions of that night as delicately as possible. I try to explain how wrong it felt to leave his family in the hands of strangers and buried lost among other strangers. He doesn’t say much, just nods and asks more questions.

Buildings now stand where rubble previously lay. The empty structures are in pristine condition but eerie in the quiet of the night. Nothing is familiar. We walk through this foreign land like it is a completely different district and not the one where we both were born. Eventually the rows of buildings trickle down to nothing but flattened dirt.

My feet freeze when we meet the Meadow. It’s unrecognizable. Where there once was an open field of tall waving grass and steadfast weeds now is a bulging mound of dark soil as far as the eye can see. It’s massive. There are so many. These are our neighbors, our friends. A whimper leaves my throat as I stumble back.

Peeta is still, staring, deaf to my distress.

“Peeta,” I call, then give up and pull his face away from the grim sight. “Come on, Peeta. We’ll stick to the trees from here.”

I lead him away and into the perimeter of the woods. A large hand slips into mine and stops my stride. His voice shakes as much as his hand.

“Thank you for not leaving them there.”

My left hand joins the other so both can squeeze back.

“We’re almost there.”

The two willows are dressed in a coat of spring leaves. In the sunlight, we would see the branches decorated with hanging catkins promising new life. I part the curtain of drooping branches and let them fall closed behind us. Inside the willows embrace, Peeta kneels at the untouched blanket of river stones that I laid here months prior.

We don’t say a word, but when he starts to weep I kneel beside him. He needs a reminder that he doesn’t have to do this alone.

“They’re really gone.”

He rubs his hands across his wet face. “I knew that, but still, somewhere inside me,” he says jabbing into his chest, “I felt like they were only just away for a little while, busy with their lives, never ones to visit. But they’re not away. They’re gone.”

He inhales with force. “Will I carry this- this aching inside me for the rest of my life?”

His voice drops to a whisper as his head drops to my shoulder. “What do I do, Katniss?”

“I don’t know.” I answer honestly.

Prim’s birthday would have been in two days and I already want to crawl under my covers and hide. I know when it comes that’s exactly where I’ll be: tucked in her bed wondering why I’m still here when she is not. I understand that I should be grateful to still be alive and I should live a good life in her honor. But how do you grieve and still be gracious?

“I feel that ache everyday - like stones piled on top of my chest. A stone for every death. Some days I can manage the weight of them all, then other days, _her_ single death outweighs them all.”

I tilt my head onto the top of his.

“I don’t think they will ever go away. I’m not sure that they should. I only hope, instead, that we find a way to be stronger- strong enough to withstand their weight, strong enough to carry them with us.”

When we return to the village, instead of separating at my door I tug at his arm to bring him inside. Half the night is gone already and I’m not about to let him spend the rest of it alone. As he falls asleep, I don’t want the only thing he thinks of to be a grave. At least I have something I hope might offer solace.

He numbly follows me into my bedroom. I get him to take off his shoes and sit down on my bed while I bend down and reach into the darkness underneath to pull out a well-worn bag. I climb up beside him and place the bag between us.

“I wanted you to always have something of home.”

His brows crease as he leans forward to lift the cloth flap.

“O- oh,” he breathes tremulously.

His hands wrap around the handle of the twisted whisk. In his hands, it doesn’t seem as unusually large as it did in mine. His thumbs and forefingers work the metal, trying to bend it back into shape. He looks up at me, opens his mouth, and then closes quickly. He lays the whisk next to him with care before returning to the bag.

Next he withdraws the shard of ceramic. He wipes it against his shirt, removing the remaining ash and dirt, revealing its faded yellow coloring. He places it delicately beside the whisk and returns to the bag.

He gasps as he holds the old brick tenderly.

“Do you know what this is?”

I nod. How many hours did he spend using those ovens? He closes his eyes, bows his neck, and brings the brick to his forehead, rocking back and forth with emotion. Suddenly he straightens and places it neatly in a row next to the other treasures.

Last is the mysterious metal box.

“I found it but I don’t know what’s inside.” I hand him the knife from my boot to use to pry at the distorted seam. “It was yours to open.”

“I don’t recognize this,” his raspy voice mumbles.

After several minutes of exertion, the lid flings open, revealing a stack of aged documents. Worn letters, government forms, a marriage license – Peeta examines each as he finds them. He spends a significant amount of time smiling at a series of around two-dozen paper cards with what looks like recipes handwritten upon them. It’s the Mellark family’s version of my plant book. The recipes are filled with words I’ve never heard of, but they are clearly the efforts to preserve his family legacy.

His sharp inhale draws my attention. In his hand is a photograph of what must be him and his two brothers. The eldest looks to be six or seven and is standing stiffly with a proud seriousness. The second looks to be just past toddling and has a devilish glint in his eyes. And the youngest, Peeta, is propped up, chubby legs not yet walking, joyfully gumming his fist in his mouth. The photo shows three boys with identical features but vastly varying dispositions.

I can’t help but smile at the slobbering infant version of the boy sitting beside me.

“I can’t imagine how my father was ever able to afford a real photo,” he reflects. “It being only of the three of us and hidden away makes me think he didn’t want my mother to know of the extravagance.”

Looking at the photograph, I am sorry I don’t know more about his brothers. “Will you tell me about them?”

He leans his back against the headboard and waves me over to join him.

“Rueben was the eldest. He always had that look,” he points to the adolescent face, “always quiet and dignified. We weren’t close, with so many years between us, but I always wished I could be as smart as him. He left home as soon as he could, I couldn’t have been much older than ten at the time. He hated the bakery and made sure to marry the grocer’s only daughter so he could change trades.”

He points to the younger brother. “Simeon was the ladies man. I can’t remember how many girlfriends he had over the years, some at the same time.” He snorts in humor, “He was brilliant with bread but a disgrace with decorating. That’s how I got so good. We planned on sharing the bakery some day, splitting the work to match our talents. Simeon would give me hell about everything, but especially about you. He’d tease me constantly, but he wouldn’t stand for anyone else doing so. Well, except mother. It was as if he knew that if he never said anything he’d be in the clear, so I was on my own. At least I could bear the brunt for all of us.”

I shake my head in disgust. I never trusted the middle Mellark. He always made me feel uncomfortable, winking at me whenever he passed. He and Gale also had some unspoken competition at the slagheap. To me, his constant smiles warned of conceit. Then, his actions during the Reaping, sealed my opinion. For his older, stronger brother to abandon Peeta is unthinkable. I know my expectations are not entirely reasonable, but to me, it was the greatest form of a betrayal of his duty. I am sure he believed Peeta would never survive. My stomach twists. It’s not just that he knew he would be killed, almost crueler, he knew Peeta would be thrown into a death match alongside the girl he’d apparently loved for over a decade. He saved his own skin at the expense of both his youngest brother’s life and his youngest brother’s heart.

“Don’t blame him, Katniss.” He turns to me, “I can imagine what you’re thinking. But me and my brothers, we were never like you and Prim. I used to watch you with her in awe. When we were young you were everything I wished my elder siblings would be. I watched you proudly showing off your baby sister and spied you taking her on adventures and telling her stories. Then, when we were older, you were everything I wished my mother would be. You loved your sister so fiercely. You were so often sad, but when you saw her, your eyes would light up, at least for a little while. How I,” he inhales and then exhales painfully, “I spent nights wishing for a mother who would protect me the way you protected Prim. I don’t think you understand how unusual that was. You and your sister’s relationship was special. My brothers never could have lived up to those impossible standards.”

My face starts to crumble, my emotions spilling forth. The splinters in the dam have been cracking bigger and bigger a now they are collapsing entirely.

I feel my body gathered into strong arms.

This isn’t right. After this evening, he shouldn’t be comforting me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. I try and force myself to calm down, to shove my feelings back into the box where I keep them locked. His hold is so inviting, but I shouldn’t be lured to melt into it. I should be strong.

As I try to distance myself, the limbs of my captor tighten. I barely hear the words but I’m certain they were said.

“Stay with me.”

_Stay with me._

I surrender, no more able to fight that request than any other from him. I simmer in the warmth of his protection. We lay, nested into one another, and as my consciousness begins to drift away, I wonder if we are burrowed together in 12 or on another train headed into the unknown.


	25. CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXV

Peeta and I never talk about that night. We slept late into the next afternoon, periodically waking the other from a nightmare before curling back to sleep. In the morning when we part ways, he thanks me for what I did for his family, saving the items from the bakery, and for helping him finally have a decent night's rest.

We fall back into our routine.

The problem is that over the next week, I notice the shadows under his eyes darkening. I sit in my windowsill and can see the faint light from his bedroom window late into the night. And yet, I seem to have lost my boldness. Something changed that night and I don’t know how to put words to it. Things shifted. I don’t regret it, but I suddenly feel much more unsure- timid really- an emotion so unfamiliar it feels like an itchy sweater.

It felt so good to not be alone in this big house. It felt good to know Peeta was safely within yelling distance. The voice in my head repeats the same phrase it has advised since I returned to 12: _Peeta belongs here._

_Here._

His house is cold and devoid of any feeling of home. He haunts the place, drifting from room to room without making a mark, without making it his. There are three unused bedrooms here and a kitchen I’d be happy to relinquish into his hands. Frankly, it’s preposterous that each Victor of District 12 lives alone in a house that could easily sleep eight or more. The more I think about it, the more confident I become in this plan. It has hints of my trademark impulsivity, which only seems to spur me on.

Although a secret part of me wishes he could stay in my room and offer a better night’s rest to us both, I know that isn’t the right step. Prim’s room is out of the question and the guest room feels darker than the others.

I take a fresh look at my mother’s room. It is the nicest of the four bedrooms, large and airy. If I move the vanity into the guest room, there may be enough space for him to paint. Even better, the previously feminine colors have already been swapped with the more masculine items from Peeta’s guest room. The issue is that the closets and drawers are still filled with my mother’s items, but as I look at the room and imagine how wonderful it would be if it became Peeta’s, the decision is easily made.

I spend the next four hours removing, folding, and boxing up clothing, shoes, and the like. I only put aside one dress: the one my mother wore when she and Pa had their toasting. The rest find their way into boxes. The Capitol beauty supplies I had the prep team purchase for her end up in another. My mother is never going to come back, both in general and for anything here. She’s moved on and started a new life for herself. I have no attachment to anything she abandoned here no matter how much I can relate to the forgotten items.

After failing to drag out the vanity on my own, I flag down Thom to ask him to lend a hand. He doesn't ask why I'm rearranging furniture, but does give me a knowing smirk when I ask the favor.

As we work, he amuses me with tales of Colt's outrageous fawning over Effie. Between the energy of building a new district and the entertainment of watching the couple's flirtations and burgeoning affection, he confides that it is inspiring him to try to move on from some previous disappointed hopes. He won't speak of who it was, just looks at me sadly, before bashfully mentioning that Cash, the youngest Hennessey brother - "you know," he informs, "the one with that handsome lumberjack beard" - has recently become a very good friend. 

After we finish and I walk him to the door, I'm left amazed at how my life has changed. A few months ago, I was so disconnected from the world I was practically dead. And now? Now, I'm preparing my home for a new roommate and acting as someone's trusted confidante in matters of the heart. What could possibly change next?

Thinking of that massive shift- who I was, who I am, who I will be - hurts my head, so I return to decorating. I try to find odd items to fill the room to make it feel less bare, but Peeta and I will have to work together on improving his ability to make it feel like home for him. Until then, I retrieve the drawing of Prim and Peeta, the one where they’re decorating cupcakes. I place it in a frame and delicately position it on the dresser.

Smiling at the remade room, I wonder if, like Thom, I might be just as inspired by this new district growing from the ashes. 

I carry the boxes of clothing and ladies’ toiletries over to Sae’s. She’ll be able to find good homes amongst the other women and save something special for herself and Ana. Sae gives me a close study but otherwise doesn’t comment on my delivery and doesn’t ask for an explanation of my sudden purging. I am grateful to her for that. It is a special gift to know when to push and when to let me be.

That night, I take another look at the new room, pleased with the results. When I return to my window and see the pale light again emanating from his room, I decide that, if I have anything to do with it, tonight will be the last night that light remains on.

* * *

“You aren’t sleeping.”

_Way to go right out and say it, Katniss._

Peeta looks at me disconcertedly. It did come out more accusatory than I planned; blame it on the nerves. I lost my courage at breakfast, so when he arrived after lunch I jumped in with more enthusiasm than was required.

“I- uh- I get plenty.”

_Well that’s not even remotely true, Peeta._

“Sure, you do. Same as me, right? We both have no problems sleeping whatsoever.”

His jaw clenches. _Oops_. I really didn’t mean for this conversation to be so confrontational.

“Fine, Katniss,” he changes his tone to sound like he’s talking to a doctor, “I struggle to fall asleep and the nightmares wake me up several times a night. It’s often better to not sleep at all.”

I pause and look at him meaningfully.

“I know.”

"How do you know?"

After a bracing inhale, I let the words tumble out. “Every single night I feel… I feel my mind stretching thinner and thinner until my memories explode outwards as if they’ve stepped on a land mine. And I’m no longer in bed, safe in 12, through with the war; I am back in the rubble, with the sound of screaming and the sickening smell of burnt flesh and everything, _everything,_ reeking of roses.” I turn away and look out at the garden from my porch. “There may be a new Panem, but there is still a war zone inside me.”

I lean over the railing nervously picking at my brittle nails.

A weak voice behind me draws near, “My dreams used to flow, like a story playing in my mind. Good, bad, strange, it didn’t matter, they had a shape, a structure to adhere to. Now, my dreams are… they’re nothing but anarchy. Images bash about my brain, scattered flashes of reality and lies attacking like an angry mob. Most come and go quickly. But others stay. It feels like they have rooted themselves into my head and play accomplice to every bit of chaos conjured. These,” he shivers, “these are the worst. They are my darkest memories; heinous ones that I wish everyday were not real.”

He clutches at the railing with white knuckles.

“The memory of feeling agony I never knew existed, hearing the sound of Jo’s screams tangled with Annie’s wails, and seeing Darius and Lavinia’s remains handled no better than garbage after being forced to watch their excruciating deaths.”

He squeezes his eyelids shut and bangs his fist on his forehead four times. “If I could never sleep I would.”

I grab his fist and stop it from continuing its assault. It shouldn’t be so easy for me to forget that there are weeks of unimaginable atrocities that Peeta lived through while he was imprisoned. Things I will never fully know but he is forced to live with for the rest of his life.

“W-was it better that night? The night you stayed here?” I wish my voice wasn’t so unsteady.

He halts his movement and turns the question over in his mind.

“A little. It was less… disordered, I guess. The nightmares were still there, but it helped to not be alone.”

I nod. “Anchored. I always feel anchored.”

It’s time to ask the question. _Come on spit it out._ It shouldn’t be so hard.

“I-“

I struggle. I can’t get the words to come.

“I want- I have-,” I groan in frustration. “Just let me show you.”

I about-face and march off.

Peeta follows in my wake as I find myself stomping through the house and ascending the stairs. I throw open the new bedroom’s door and walk inside. Peeta enters and looks around the room blandly.

“Move.”

Peeta shifts back a step and presses out of the way.

“No. Move. Move here. With me.”

His head swivels around to meet mine.

Shocked he stammers, “You-you want me to m-move in with you? Here?”

I confirm doubtlessly. “Yes. You belong here. I want this to be your home.”

“Home?” He wraps his mouth around the word like it’s a foreign fruit.

“Yes."

“You can’t be serious.”

That makes me irritated. How dare he think I’m not serious about this? This isn’t some kind of joke. What kind of person does he think I am, to joke about such a thing? Can he not see how difficult this is for me? Does he not realize how much _old Katniss_ would oppose this plan or any show of weakness or needing? This is a big thing for me. I’m trying so hard.

Feeling defensive, the room is now far too claustrophobic to remain. I wrap my arms around myself tightly, donning an armor to protect myself as best as I can.

“Well, Peeta, I don’t know about you, but I most certainly am _serious_. I made this room for you. I’m prepared to let you do whatever you want to the kitchen. I planned on neither one of us spending another night alone in these awful houses. I thought- I thought,” I swallow back the bitter taste of my crushing hopes. “I thought we might be better together than apart. Take care of each other. But fine, do whatever you want.”

My emotions swell and I want to say more, but I don’t.

I leave the room as quickly as my feet will take me and let them lead me deep into the woods, into my sanctuary. I climb an old beech tree and sit in silence for hours. Birds begin to fly down and join me on the branch. I begin passing melancholy melodies back and forth between my companions, leaving them with a tune to carry onwards once I depart.

I don’t expect Peeta to show up for dinner that night. As the minutes pass, and the meal gets cold, I realize I’ll have to leave it on his doorstep.

But when I open the door to carry over the container, I find myself standing face-to-face with my boy with the bread.

In his hand is a duffel bag.

He smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

* * *

“There’s tea in the kettle.”

Living with Peeta has proven to be not that different than living alone. My days are filled with the same activities as they ever were. However, now, as I rise before dawn to head out to the woods, my flour-covered housemate meets me. Beyond our poor sleeping habits, baker’s hours and hunter’s hours turn out to be much the same. Peeta has a knack for beating me to the kitchen. By the time I head down, he has a kettle on for me to fill my thermos before heading out to the woods.

As he’s settled in, he’s slowly overhauled the kitchen. During our first week of living together, each day new items would materialize. And as the kitchen grew, Peeta’s baking increased. What began as one or two recipes for him to practice and for me to salivate over, soon multiplied. Once he saw the crew’s jubilant reactions to the fresh rolls he surprised Sae with, he couldn’t resist making enough for everyone in the camp. After convincing him not to overwork himself, he’s restrained himself to only dedicating two days a week to making loaves to feed the whole district.

I walk back to the house with Samson and two full bags of game. His shot is improving but he can only hit the slowest of the small game. Our walk is interrupted by shouts coming from an upstairs window. I look up and see the red face of my former Mentor leaning out.

“Get your ass in here, Mockingjay.”

_Oh, no ‘sweetheart’ today, I must really be in trouble._

I hand Sam my bag and send him along. I have a feeling this conversation won’t be for children’s ears.

Walking into his house is like walking into the inner workings of his mind: full of tripping hazards and soaked in white liquor. I step over the toppled plate of decaying food but can’t seem to avoid stepping into something sticky that proceeds to cling to my boot with every step. The sound of either a blundering man or a graceful bull thumps down the stairs

“Well there she is! The stupidest person in Panem,” he shakes a finger at me. It might have been more effective if the hand attached to it wasn’t sloshing liquor up his sleeve.

“And here’s the drunkest. Aren’t we an impressive pair?”

“I am seriously wondering if you’ve got brain damage because what on earth could possess you to do something so stupid. Are you trying to kill yourself? Because there are easier ways.”

“What have you hauled me in here for?”

I wrinkle my nose and push away a moldy towel with the toe of my shoe. “As much as I always enjoy our little chats, the smell in here is offensive. Really, Haymitch, this is repulsive, even for you.”

“Oh no you don’t, we’re talking about you, Girl on Fire. I went to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep you alive and now you’re just going to throw it all away?”

I roll my eyes like the teenager I really am.

“Stop being so dramatic, Haymitch. Next you’ll be wearing a wig and feathers worrying like Effie.” Crossing my arms, I sigh. “I’m guessing you’re not pleased about Peeta’s new living arrangements.” I snort. “It only took you nine days.”

His eyes widen. “Nine days?!”

I raise my eyebrows. I’m not about to repeat myself. Instead I turn around slowly, on display, as if some of Cinna’s flames could be triggered at any moment.

“And look, I’m alive. Not a mark on me besides the hundreds that were already there.”

He growls like a baby bear and throws himself into a piece of furniture that may have been a sofa at one time. I tone down my attitude to try and make my point before he gets combative again. We really don’t bring out the best in each other.

“Haymitch, I know this is somehow coming from some weird place of concern. I know you care a lot about us. You probably don’t even understand it yourself, but I appreciate it, really I do. Now let me ask you a few things.”

I pace back and forth in front of him.

“Would you say that over the years you’ve gotten a good handle on what makes me tick?”

I watch him nod.

“Would you say, out of everyone still in my life, you probably understand me best?”

He snorts. “Probably. What does that say about either one of us?”

I smirk. _Doesn’t say anything good that’s for sure._

I continue, “So do you honestly believe, after all you know about me, that I would ever do something like this unless I, one, already tried to talk myself out it several times, and two, was sure it wouldn’t be a threat?”

His face sours, bitter at that truth. “Fine,” he spits out then rubs up and down the crown of his head attempting to push past his vexation. When he looks back up at me his eyes are haunted.

“I’ll never be able to erase the image of him strangling you, sweetheart, you understand that right? I think the world of the boy, a better person than either of us, but when he came at you I couldn’t stop him. Damn it Katniss, if Boggs wasn’t there you wouldn’t be alive right now.”

My eyes drop and I swallow roughly, remembering the feeling of his gripping hands.

“I know Haymitch.”

“So you’re okay? He’s fixed?”

“Haymitch,” I try to look at him kindly, “he’s just as unfixable as the two of us. But… he’s better. I saw him lose it weeks ago, have an attack or flashback or whatever the doctors call them, and I could help him out of it. He didn’t hurt me. I really believe that being alone in that house was going to make things worse not better. He shouldn’t be left alone in his thoughts.”

I exhale, “None of us should." I shake my head, "I’m sorry, but look around, Haymitch. We lock ourselves in our mansions paid for in the blood of children. We fall off the deep end and disappear into our nightmares. If I didn’t think the two of us might kill the other, I would have you leave this…” I open out my arms to gesture to the wrecked room surrounding us, “…this biological hazard and have you move in too.”

He flashes his teeth, “Can you imagine the damage we would do if we were forced to be roommates?”

I ignore the question.

“Peeta and I will be okay, really, but Haymitch, how am I not suppose to worry about you when I see all this?”

He waves me off. “I’m fine.”

_Liar._

I squat down so I can look up at him, “We both know that’s not true.”

Peeta tried to say he ‘was fine’ too. I stand and dust off my pants.

“Don’t keep making the same mistakes you have made for the last 25 years. You need to find something to fill your days besides drinking and being haunted by memories. Remember what you told me _,_ _little stupid tasks to get through the days_. I don’t care what it is- knitting socks, brewing beer, tending sheep- just do _something._ I’m tired of seeing the people I care about put into early graves. _”_

* * *

Since Peeta moved in, most nights, after dinner the two of us spend the evening sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa as we work. He’ll draw or journal and I’ll read or whittle away at a block of wood. Some nights, we’ll talk late into early morning, others we’ll sit in silence appreciating the other’s presence without speaking a word. Each night, the distance between us shrinks.

The boundaries return once we head to bed, both knowing that no matter how comforting it is, to sleep next to the other would change everything and there would be no going back. It’ll mean more this time and we’re not ready yet to have that conversation. Neither one of us is ready to risk the newfound balance we’ve found and keeping a line drawn helps maintain the informal agreement to keep things as they stand. That doesn’t mean we don’t imagine plenty when we’re alone in the privacy of our thoughts. That also doesn’t mean we don’t check on the other during the night. Peeta will come and shake me awake when my night terrors get too loud, and I’ll wake up one or two times a night to check on him and soothe whatever distress may be there.

I lean my temple on his shoulder and turn through the pages of the plant book. He leans his own my way, watching the pages flip by.

“We’ve done this before haven’t we?” He questions.

I skip to one of his drawings, this one a flowering skullcap in a vibrant blue.

“When I was put on bed rest after I fell trying to sneak back over the electric fence, you would visit and we’d spend the afternoons in bed adding entries.”

I flip to another; this one is a drawing of garlic mustard, with its serrated veined leaves and white four-petal flowers.

“You said it was the first normal thing we ever did together. Do you remember that?”

“I don’t remember drawing this but I know it’s my hand. I can tell the memory I have in my head has been altered, built from one of Snow’s recording devices - I hate that there were bugs in the houses that he could use against me. But I can feel that whatever the memory originally was is a good memory.”

The tip of his tongue slips out, moistening his lower lip. “This is going to sound crazy, but I always think of it when I taste peppermint.”

My forehead scrunches for several moments before I start to laugh.

_Incredible._

“Despite everything, you can still remember the most extraordinary details. I had completely forgotten.”

I caress his palm with my fingers, tracing the map of lines etched across it. “I had a bag of peppermints on me when the Peacekeepers questioned me. You stole it and played catch with the others to distract the two officials. Every time you visited, you would pinch another peppermint from my bedside table and suck on it while you drew.”

He smiles at that. It must be a relief to know that his reactions aren’t so bizarre, that they make some sense in the context of the lost real memories.

That night we start a new routine of adding new entries to the book. He’ll study something new in the garden or I’ll bring in a cutting of something new from the woods.

One night, while adding in my notes next to a drawing of oyster mushrooms, my attention is continuously pulled away to Peeta’s focused sketching of the ‘morphlings’ from District 6. He hasn’t drawn them haggard from addiction or on the brink of death. No, they look so… joyous. They are painting swirls on one another’s faces, like they did during Training Sessions, but instead of weary and damaged they are healthy and exultant. He’s drawn them to look like how they should have been, how they would have been if the Games never existed.

_I don’t even know their real names_.

I look from his pad and back to my book.

“We should put them all into a book. Somewhere they can all be remembered.”

He looks up from the sketch. “ _All_ of them?”

“Yes. Just like this. Unbroken.”

And so we began another new routine.

Records and drawings of flowers are put aside for faces. We work slowly, sometimes intensely hunched over the coffee table and other times laid across the couch in reflection. Some pages are mottled with tear stains and others are crinkled with rage.

We begin with the faces that haunt us the most: Rue, Finn, Darius, Lavinia, Mitchell, Agnes- the girl from 8, the Mellarks, even Prim once I build up enough strength. Each gets a page as we tell their stories as best we can. Peeta decides to make some calls and expand our research so we can include the details we don’t know.

It’s hard, painful even, but it is also cleansing. We both feel better once a person finds their place onto a page. We begin to make a list of those that need a place in the book but one sheet is not enough. Victims of the Games, lost district neighbors, fallen soldiers, innocents- there are too many to count. We get to page fifteen, listing one name after another, before we stop for the time being. Without either of us saying it, we know this is a vocation that will require years of our lives.

But, unlike the people in the book, we are the ones fortunate enough to have the time to honor them.


	26. CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVI

Together, our days pass quickly and quietly. Spring has fully fled and summer reigns supreme. Blocks of new district buildings emerge from the earth like vegetables in my garden. The work crews multiply and the first train of new residents is expected in two weeks.

Peeta eventually confronts me about my long sleeves and sweaters. In the sweltering heat, my clothing choices are obviously flawed. He compares my scars to his own. I mention that he is just as bad with how he hides his leg. _Why are we pretending to be able to hide things from each other?_ We both know what lies beneath and neither of us cares.

So, he agrees to be better about his prosthetic and I agree to be better about my scars when we’re alone but I refuse to consider allowing others see me that way. I will be vulnerable with no one else but him.

When the summer heat becomes unbearable, I daydream of spending a day swimming. Finally, the temptation becomes too strong and I wake up early, beating Peeta to the kitchen to pack food and supplies for a surprise trip the lake. When he greets me downstairs, I toss him a pair of shorts he can use as swim trunks and tell him we’ve got plans for the day.

Although his stride is still clamorous, after acclimating him into the woods over the last few weeks, he is much less incongruous. He periodically asks “are we there yet,” but maintains a positive outlook during our excursion.

After the long hike has left our sweat-soaked clothing clinging uncomfortably, we race into the lake as soon as it is in sight. I kick off my boots and pull off my sundress, a sleeveless cotton one that I had finally built up enough nerve to wear for the first time, diving into the lake in my shorts and camisole. The rush of cool water is glorious.

I watch his strokes, pleased to see Peeta has retained some of what I taught during the Quell. We splash and play like children, forgetting the rest of the world until our growling stomachs pull us back to reality. There is large tree where we can picnic under branches sprinkled in butter colored blossoms. If only things could always be this way. I savor the peacefulness as we drip dry and refuel.

Peeta is on his back, basking contently, arms folded behind his head causing his torso to flex. As I lay on my stomach, I catch myself staring and turn into my own arms folded beneath me before a betraying blush forms.

“What kind of tree is this?” He asks suddenly, wiping the crumbs from his lips.

“A linden.” I lift up on an elbow and prop my chin on my palm.

“I’ve always loved linden trees, this one especially." Pa and I would come out here every summer to fish, and when we needed some shade to hide from the sun, we’d retreat under this one and its flowering branches. "I used to scurry up its limbs and collect the flowers to take back to my mother for medicines. They help with nerves and colds. Pa and I always plucked extras to snack on.”

I hop up to my feet and reach towards a cluster on a low-hanging branch. “Here, try.” I pop one into my mouth and hand the rest to him as I settle back down into the grass.

“It’s almost sweet,” he tastes.

“The bees love them. You can eat the bark and leaves too. The budding leaves taste best,” I show him so he knows I’m not lying.

“They’re shaped like hearts,” he comments fondly as he holds up a larger leaf to the sun.

“Pa said they're shaped like hearts because it's a tree for lovers.” My face reddens upon the realization of my comment and our position. I distract myself by explaining, “He had a story about them.” I refuse to meet Peeta’s distractingly handsome face, wet hair, and bare chest.

“According to him, there were once two beggars looking for shelter and food. No one would give them sanctuary until they knocked on the door of a kind old couple. To thank the couple for their generosity, the two beggars said they would grant them whatever wish they desired most. The husband and wife discussed the offer. Together, they asked that when the time came for one of them to die, they might leave this earth at the same time. Neither wished to be parted and left in sorrow.”

My eyelids flutter shut. The end of this story was always my favorite part. “When the time came for their souls to move on, the couple was transformed into a pair of trees, one oak and one linden, branches intertwined so they would always be together.”

“That’s beautiful,” he says reverently.

“Have you ever seen an oak and linden like that?”

I open my eyes and grin unashamedly. I can always count on Peeta’s understanding.

“No, but I always check. Maybe they are just too different. They belong to different worlds, might even be grown from different soils. But I can’t help myself from hoping one day I’ll find a pair intertwined together, just as his story told.”

Timidly, Peeta confesses, “You know, when I was a boy, I used to collect the bright red leaves that fell from the oak trees in autumn.”

That is a precious picture to imagine.

“Why those?”

He shakes his head and laughs. “It’s silly.”

He tries to leave it at that but I wait for him to elaborate.

“That first day at school, when you stood up to sing for the class, I watched you as you skipped home. It was autumn and the trees were beginning to shed, and you looked like a bright, red oak leaf dancing in the wind. You practically floated on air. Your red dress was fluttering and I swore at any moment you might fly away. I’d never seen anything so free.”

I bite my lip and smile at him tenderly, then break the tension by throwing a linden flower at him. He opens his mouth and catches it. We toss flowers at each other, laughing until we are on our backs panting.

Shifting nearer, I hear Peeta quietly beside me.

“The old couple, I want that someday. Maybe that kind of thing is only in stories. I know if my mother had been offered any reward in the world, she would not have chosen to die alongside my dad. Ironic given how they died together,” he ends astringently.

I roll my head to the side and try to reply wryly to lighten the mood. “Peeta, your mother would never have helped the beggars in the first place.”

I get a small chuckle out of that before I continue.

“We can’t pick our family. Sometimes they fail us. Sometimes they _hurt_ us,” I look at him significantly. “Or maybe they just neglect us. And there is nothing we can do about it." It just _is._ "But you know what I recently learned? My mother may have given me life, but Sae became a real mother to me the moment she chose to be there when I needed her the most. And you may have been the child born of your mother, but I promise you that Effie loves and cares for you as if she carried you for nine months herself.” My voice becomes confident. “I can either say my family is gone and I’m all alone in the world, or I can redefine what family means.”

“What does _family_ mean to you, Peeta?” I ask.

He considers the question for a long time before answering.

“Family accepts you for who you truly are. They are there to support you, to believe in you… to wish the best for you.”

“I like that,” I affirm. “For me, it’s as simple as someone who chooses to take the time to be there. Someone who cares enough to want to be a part of your life, who values you enough to be a part their own.”

I brush a stray leaf from his hair.

“Peeta, by those definitions, we’ve cobbled together a pretty decent family. An untraditional and fairly intimidating one, but one I’m still thankful for.”

We pack up the basket of food and I point out the waving arrowhead shaped leaves at the waters edge. Lifting the hem of my sundress, I wade into the shallows of the lake to pull out a large handful of my namesake. Peeta’s gaze never leaves me; I can feel it burning into skin. I attempt to ignore its heat and present the wild katniss with pride before dragging him to my favorite spot to fish.

While we spend the rest of the late morning fishing, he confides about the pressure to re-open the bakery. Thom and the crew are huge supporters of Peeta and his baking, but in their enthusiasm he’s left feeling overwhelmed and guilty. He says a lot of words to express something that I understand without needing to hear more than a few. It isn’t such a troubling conundrum to me. I understand the struggle; it’s not as complex as he’s making it.

“I think you need to see it from another angle.”

I paint a picture for him as I reel my line back in.

“I love going to my woods every day. It makes me feel closer to my father. I look forward to it and I find it satisfying to bring in food for the others when I can. But wouldn’t it be something completely different if I became the town hunter or butcher?”

I recast my line. “Then I would _have_ to do it every day. I’d have to give up other things I might enjoy to spend that time on my new business. It would define me and my life much more than it already does. I'd imagine having to meet orders and stick to schedules would turn something I love into something I would grow tired of, maybe even someday hate. Plus, I have to be honest with myself and know my limits.”

I quiet my voice. “Peeta, we’ve been through a lot." _Too much._ "It’s left permanent marks. I have good days but then I have bad days. And sometimes I have really bad days. I can’t predict when each will hit. I can own my brokenness and be okay with it, but I don’t want to become more ashamed of it than I already am by failing to meet unreasonable expectations.”

I smirk and lift my right shoulder in a shrug. “And to be blunt, we’re barely 18-years-old. After years of being forced into things, I don’t want to _have_ to do anything until I’m at least 20.”

“So I should say no?” He asks as he reels in his own line a couple of feet.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” I quickly reply. I’m not telling him yes or no, just trying to remind him that he has to think about what is best and healthiest for himself.

He looks at me baffled, “You didn’t?”

“Peeta, I just want you to think about what _you_ really want. What makes you feel better and what makes you feel worse each day? When you wake up, what is worth getting out of bed for? Do those things and, frankly, screw the rest.”

I look him square in the eye. “Answer me this: would running the District 12 bakery make you feel content?”

His face tightens, not liking that question.

“It feels important for me to ensure that District 12 will continue to have a Mellark’s Bakery to serve its citizens… but- but after everything, I don’t think it’s enough to push away the darkness. I mean… I like baking every morning but making bread and selling bread all day long does sound like a lot of work. Even before, my brother and I were planning on spitting the duties so I wouldn’t have to make the same things every day and could focus on decorating. But I can’t do that now.”

I look at him skeptically, “Why not?”

I clarify, “I don’t mean splitting with your bother. But, why can’t you honor your family and have a Mellark’s Bakery and find someone else to run it? You can share the recipes you think are important; even train them if you don’t think they have the right ‘Mellark’ talent. You could even still decorate special orders.”

I reel in a jumpy catfish while I can practically hear Peeta’s wheels turning. Once the fish is securely plopped into the basket I point out to him, “Prim is the one who reminded me I could make my own demands because they wanted me to be their Mockingjay. I’d wager you could make your own rules much the same.”

He remains deep in thought for next half hour as I reel in a second fish and he brings in his first, but by far the largest. I enjoy the quiet but a question is gnawing at me.

“Is there anything that would be enough to ‘push out the darkness’?”

He pulls out his line and places the fishing rod to the side.

“This right now, this chases away a little of it. The little traditions we’ve created together chases a bit more. I think if I could do something to really help other people in need that could chase away even more.”

“Like what?” I wonder. There’s a world of possibilities but I can’t really think of what he’d be imagining.

“You can’t laugh okay? It might be stupid. It’s just something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately.”

I nod reassuringly.

“The other day, I called Effie and had her get confirmation that our Victor houses are considered our personal property to do with however we please.” I tip my head in confusion. _Why would that matter_? “They are, by the way.”

“Okay?”

“I guess I should explain better. You know enough about my nightmares and a little of what I saw in the Capitol. I want to do something for the Avoxes. I couldn’t do anything to save Darius or Lavinia. And there are too many nameless others that I saw while I was kept there. They were as much prisoners as I was. Worse so, they weren’t even treated like people. And I keep asking myself… What are they going to do now? They’re free from Snow but where can they go? How do they get a fresh start?”

He continues, now on a roll. “I- Well, I don’t know anything about Avoxes, but I do know I have a giant house going to waste. Even if you kicked me out someday, I don’t plan on ever returning to that house. It’ll never be home for me. As soon as I could be free again, the first place I wanted to go was 12. It’s a district as unlike the Capitol as you can get. Maybe they’d feel the same. Maybe, I could offer my house and my help so they can have a new start.”

It’s a good idea, generous and kind and so very Peeta. With all that the new government has to work on, I wonder if any of them have even thought about the Avoxes. This could be something he can do as a sort of penance for his unearned but self-assigned sins.

“I think it’s an incredible idea. When we get back tonight, we can write a letter to Pollux. He may have some ideas of what many of the Avoxes may need.”

“You really think it could work?” He asks, eyes brightening. The blue irises sparkle like the lake behind him. I shake myself from their magnetic pull.

“I do.”

As the sun moves across the sky, we eventually decide it’s time to head back. I pack up the fish basket and game bag filled with plants, but when I stand up Peeta has disappeared.

Looking around, I find him thoughtfully staring up at the linden tree twiddling something small in his hand. As I near, I recognize the yellow bursting head and lanky stem of a dandelion. _Where did he find that?_

I stand next to him and wait for him to shake out of his contemplations.

"Katniss," he asks softly, “Why did you pick one of these all those years ago?”

The question sounds like it is for himself and not for me, but I answer anyway. “I forgot that you saw me do that.” I slip the weed from between his fingertips.

“I was so embarrassed that day. I wanted to thank you and apologize for getting you hurt, but when I saw you I had no idea what to say. So, I said nothing. I watched you across the schoolyard, so very grateful for giving me two loaves of bread and a little hope to cling to. When I looked down, I saw it there, sprouting between us: the first bloom of spring. It wasn’t just some scraggly flower; it was a new beginning." I explain, "I had spent months in so much fear I had forgotten everything my father taught me. But, when I saw that dandelion, every lesson he gave, every story he told, they all came flooding back. If I could find dandelions, I could keep us safe.”

“What makes them so special?”

“They don’t look like much, but there’s much more to them than first appears. They are tough and dependable, very difficult to get rid of. Pa taught me that you could eat every part of it, from roots to petals.”

I lift its bright head to my nose to catch its earthy scent. “He had a silly story about the wind falling in love with a dandelion.”

Peeta moves closer. “Tell me.”

“Um,” nervous at his intensity, I take a deep breath and try to recall my pa’s words. We were sitting together in a field of dandelions. A few still had on their yellow coats, but most had gone to seed surrounding us in white puffs that I could blow into the wind. The seeds would sweep up and dance for us midair.

“There were once four brothers: the West Wind, the East Wind, the North, and the South. The South Wind was the gentlest brother, blowing softly so he could enjoy the beauty of the world. One day, in a meadow, he spied a beautiful girl dressed in green and glowing like gold under the sun. He wanted to go to her side, but he was shy. He decided to watch her from afar, but swore that the next day he’d introduce himself. When the next day came, he again lost his courage. He was afraid of scaring her away. Day after day, he returned hoping he would finally be brave enough to show her his heart, but each day he hesitated.

“Then, one day, she no longer brightly glowed in the sunlight, her radiance was shrouded in a green shawl. Not wanting to bother her while she was hiding, the South Wind vowed to return the next day and ask her to marry him.”

I place the dandelion behind Peeta’s ear and smile at the sweet sight. “When he returned to the meadow in the morning, he realized he waited too long. The girl was gone and an old woman with white hair was in her place. The South Wind cried out in grief. The cry brought forth a great gust of wind and the air was suddenly filled with silvery puffs. When he looked up, she had disappeared, blown far into the distance.”

Peeta takes another step closer, his toes now touching mine. He stares at me with fire in his eyes.

“I don’t want to wait too long. You can’t disappear on me.”

I gingerly place my palm over his heart.

“I won’t. I promise. I’ll stay. _Always._ ”

He whispers, “ _You love me real_ or _not real?_ ”*

I look into his eyes so filled with warmth and tenderness.

“ _Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without_ ,” that’s what Gale said in Tigris’ bunker. “ _Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without_.”* All that statement tells me is that Gale may have known me the longest, but he didn’t know me best. I can easily _survive_ without either of them. I can _survive_ completely alone. It’s _easier_ to survive when you’re alone. Surviving is what I do best. It has been the story of my life for eighteen years. The struggle is all I’ve ever known.

But I’m done hoping to merely _survive_. After everything that’s happened, I want to _live._

_'You love me real_ or _not real?_ ” That’s what he asked me.

Peeta’s arms are wrapped around me and the lyrics to The Valley Song repeat in my head: _here it’s safe, here it’s warm._

I look at him, and for the first time, I can picture a future for my life – one that stretches longer than an hour, or a day, or a week. I look at him and I can see a future decades away – the two of us grey haired with achy joints, a future where we share our struggles between us, a future where we still seek solace from the darkness of the world by wrapping ourselves tightly in the other’s arms.

I look at him and can see my home.

I let the tip of my nose trace along his chin and move my lips to his mouth.

I tell him.

_“Real.” *_

* * *

_*Direct quotes from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins_


	27. CHAPTER XXVII Epilogue

XXVII Epilogue

“Are you ready, Love?”

I look up at my husband of 19 years. He is holding our daughter’s hand while our son gleefully rides atop his shoulders. His hair may be speckled with grey and skin wrinkled with laugh lines, but he is far too fit to be a father of two. He catches me scanning him hungrily and winks a sapphire eye my way.

After that first day at the lake, the walls we kept between us quickly began tumbling down. First the emotional ones, then the physical. The comfort found in chasing away each other’s nightmares made the move to one bedroom undeniable. When the last of our boundaries dissolved, Peeta and I found a harmony so connected, any who saw us felt they could see the threads that knit our lives together.

By our first snow I knew what I wanted. That morning I casually asked Peeta to make his favorite bread and left to visit Mayor Thom’s office to ask a favor. When Peeta found me that evening in my mother’s white linen dress, I handed him a toasting fork and a marriage license and asked him to join me in front of the fire. We began with two loaves of burnt bread thrown across a yard, but this new beginning only required two charred pieces placed on the other’s tongue.

Those first five years flew by. Business ventures and new projects filled the days as we tried to spend each one doing a little good for some part of our community. The memory book grew thicker and then overflowed into a second volume.

Peeta was introduced to a war widow from District 11 and immediately knew she and her sons were the perfect family to live above the new Mellark’s and run the bakery. He spent weeks working with them, trading recipes and offering advice, before stepping back to only handle special orders. It has been such a success that, to this day, the bell hasn’t been put back on the door because of its incessant ringing. However, despite its popularity, the bakery is most renown for over-making its daily inventory so there are always leftovers to handout to those who are hungry.

After months of conversations with Pollux and a committee of Avox and local representatives, we were able to open Peeta’s old Victor house, simply calling it the Haven. With the understanding that every resettled Avox was considered under Peeta’s and my protection, District 12 was immediately welcoming. Decent jobs were available to them through local shops however most residents of Haven became well-respected artisans, authors, and craftspeople. The interest was so high, after its first year President Paylor gifted three neighboring houses to meet demand.

For that next year, I learned their hand signs and spent several days a week helping to develop the four properties into a working farm. The Haven Weekend Market soon became District 12’s favorite spot for fresh produce and handmade crafts. And, in time, citizens of 12 started to pick up bits and pieces of the sign language and on any given day you could see them cheerfully gesturing in conversation with their Avox neighbors.

After Samson moved into a new home with his father and returned to school, our trips to the woods were limited to the weekends. Year after year, his skills improved while his enthusiasm never diminished. And at 18, he began holding camps and teaching wilderness classes to the children of the district, passing on what he dubbed the ‘Everdeen Technique’. I’ll never forgive him for the arrow-clutching Mockingjay patches he designed for the children’s uniforms, but I will always be supremely proud of the man he became.

Effie spent the two years that followed the inaugural Remembrance Day being the ‘it girl’ of party planning around Panem. Between events, she’d wearily return to 12 and stay with us, each time finding it harder to leave. Our dingy town had grown on her, and her adoration for Peeta was endless. We were shocked to learn that she, like most Escorts, was taken as an infant from her family and raised to work for the Games, so joining our odd little family meant the world to her.

One night, she unexpectedly turned up on our doorstep with ten trunks and a plan. She sold her Capitol apartment and most of her valuables so she had enough money to build a large home on an empty plot of land near our house. She was going to march up to poor unsuspecting Colton and tell him she was now available for formal courtship and he better be able to handle not only her but also the houseful of orphans she planned on adopting. In a month, they were gaily married, and by the end of the year, they had adopted two of what would eventually grow to be their eight children. Our little found family quickly multiplied in Effie’s always-efficient hands.

After five years, Peeta’s eyes started to linger at the sight of happy families, pregnant mothers, and playing children. We had talked about my resistance to having children many times over the years. I explained that I swore against having them long before our Games and the war and losing Prim was the final confirmation I needed. When both of us were still spending each day battling our own demons, the idea of adding a child into our household of constant nightmares, unpredictable panic attacks, and alarming episodes was unthinkable. But after five years, the nightmares were less disruptive, the panic attacks mild, and the episodes manageable. Peeta’s worry of having children was replaced with a longing for them.

For the four years that followed, my opinion on the subject did not change and Peeta, forbearing as ever, never pushed. I watched as he distracted himself from his own wishes by embracing the role of honorary uncle and favorite local hero to the little ones of the district. He becomes notorious for always having cookies in his satchel and being strong enough to carry any kid on his shoulders. That sight slowly chipped away at my hardened heart. I may not have trusted my own abilities to be a good mother, but there is no doubt that Peeta was born to be a father.

On our tenth anniversary, Peeta surprised me by planting two young trees: a linden for him and an oak for me. I surprised Peeta by telling him that he’d be a father by August.

I lived in constant anxiety during the pregnancy, resurrecting many of my worst post-war habits. I also spent the first half the pregnancy banning Peeta from the kitchen to avoid the scent-induced nausea and the second half demanding he return to provide me with a constant supply of sweets. After nine months, our daughter was born on a sticky summer’s day, angry and wailing much like her mother was from the nineteen hours of labor. She has my dark locks and fearlessness with Peeta’s blue eyes and tenderness. She is blessed with both of our stubbornness.

I shocked the neighbors but not my husband by continuing my trips to the woods. I swaddled and strapped my daughter into a sling on my chest and introduced her to our family legacy. I told her stories and sang lullabies with the birds. Eventually her tiny voice would join mine and Peeta would open the windows to listen to our melodies as the mockingjays carried them home to him and across the district.

For our fifteenth anniversary, we celebrate by welcoming our son into the world. Much like that pregnancy, our curly, blond-headed babe is calmer and full of laughter. He had his father’s adorable childhood chubbiness until his sister taught him to run and be as adventurous as she.

We lost Sae only four months after our son’s birth. I truly believe she forced her weak heart to keep beating by sheer willpower. When I privately confessed to her all my fears of motherhood, she promised to be the one helping me through all of my deliveries and she wasn’t about to break that promise. Sae lived long enough to launch the restaurant of her dreams, see Anabel marry a gentle soul and longtime resident of Haven, and bring both of her adopted grand-babies into the world. When she died, I knew we would only have two. I can not bear facing another delivery without her by my side.

My mother never did return to see me and our relationship never improved much beyond an amiable letter or two every year. But the bitterness melted away with time. Peeta and I took great effort to always show each other love and support, and that security, plus our burgeoning unofficial family, did more to settle my grievances than anything. I forgave her and chose to wish her well. As I watch my two children grow, I know it is her loss. Each moment with them is irreplaceable. Even if had to live in an Arena in order to be near them, there is nowhere else I would rather be.

In the early years, Johanna and I started building a surprising friendship over weekly phone calls after Peeta confided he was worried she wasn’t getting any help. I picked up the phone and got her to open up, well, as much as Jo could ever do such a thing. She now is a regular visitor to 12, with Annie and her son joining her at least once a year. Our children adore them and look forward to Auntie Jo and Auntie Annie’s visits and the unnecessary gifts they always bring to spoil them.

Haymitch lives long enough to celebrate his second godchild’s second birthday. Peeta and I wanted to call him Gramps; Haymitch insisted he was an Uncle at best. We settled on Godfather and let our daughter decide what to call him.

Thus, the grumpy, drunken, knife-wielding Victor, Haymitch Abernathy, became ‘Hayhay’ or on special occasions, ‘mister goose man’.

At first I doubted that his keeping geese would end well, but it kept him busy and from drowning in liquor. He had a strange connection with the irritating creatures. Then again, they were a lot alike: aggressive, rude, and fiercely protective of their young.

Although, in his later years, especially once the children came, he made efforts to improve, after decades of abuse, his liver finally gave out. For a man that spent most of his life alone and seeking ultimate oblivion at the end of a bottle, Haymitch died surrounded by a family that loved him; a family he made possible by keeping us alive. I miss the sarcastic bastard more than words can say.

Early on, Peeta and I made a promise that we wouldn’t hide the Games and the war from our children. It wasn’t a difficult decision; we knew our fame would never fade away. Over the years we may have been able to move away from the roles of divine symbol and figureheads, but we would never be normal.

Children are perceptive, there was no way our precocious imps wouldn’t realize something was different about us. After years of being lied to by our elders, we were not about to do the same to our own children. We also knew that they might one day find momma crying in a closet or papa mid-episode tearing at his hair. They needed to know what was wrong so they would never doubt their safety.

Peeta uses drawing to connect and I pick up my father’s mantle of telling fables to impart lessons. We teach them our games of ‘real or not real’ and how to add things to the lists we make of the acts of kindness we see around us.

I want them to grow up to have Peeta’s strong moral fiber and general goodness. He wants them to have my dauntless resourcefulness and fierce loyalty. We try to lead by example, letting them witness how rewarding it can be when you try to lighten the burdens of others. They’ve learned how you leave a piece of yourself with every person you meet. And like the bees that pollinate their mama’s garden, why leave behind something bad when you could leave something sweet instead?

They will not know the brutal truth of what really happened to their parents and family members until they are much older, but they understand enough. They understand enough why Peeta and I take certain things like playground fighting much more seriously than other parents. They understand enough why our eyes scan every room we enter for danger and why we never leave home unarmed. They understand enough that when they hear a passing comment from a neighbor or see a video clip on the television, they’ll never fear coming to us to ask questions. When those days come, Peeta makes his famous hot chocolate and we cuddle together on the couch to talk it through as a family.

Because of this and the Capitol’s unexpected practice of respecting our privacy, when the newest President asks Peeta and I to participate in the 20th Anniversary Memorial of the end of the war, we agree to attend for the very first time. The Arenas have all been destroyed and monuments built to honor those lost, but Peeta and I have declined every invitation, choosing to stay in 12, home and out of the spotlight.

But this is too important to stand down. Two decades have passed, and Peeta and I have both begun to worry about Plutarch’s prediction that we are, _“fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.”*_ We have happily drifted away from the public sphere, but both of us feel a duty to remind our nation of what we fought for - to make sure that our children continue to only know a world of peace.

I straighten my dress and walk to my husband and kiss him soundly. Our daughter groans as one would expect an 8-year-old at the sight of her parent’s displays of affection, but our son is still young enough that he thinks it looks like great fun. He bends over from atop his father’s shoulders so he can plant his own kiss despite his upside-down position.

When we get into the car, the children squeal at the sight of their Aunt Jo, Aunt Annie, and her son, their cousin, who looks so like Finnick my heart aches every time I see him.

This car contains every Victor still alive. Beetee died a few years ago after a botched experiment and Enobaria died nearly a decade ago in, quite embarrassingly, a bar fight. With Haymitch’s recent passing, the four of us are all that remain, living artifacts of our nation’s past shame.

Once we arrive at the Rebellion Memorial, we are quickly ushered backstage. The children will stay with their aunts, seated with the other onstage guests, while Peeta and I are positioned with those speaking. My hunter’s eyes quickly catch sight of the advancing group of government officials. I bend down to meet both my children’s faces.

“Now you remember what we told you?” I ask.

My daughter nods seriously and my son beams, “Don’t stick your finger in your nose.” He recites confidently.

I hear Jo snort loudly and swear I can feel my husband’s eyes twinkling. I try not to laugh and just smile at him encouragingly. “I did tell you that. I’m glad you remembered. But, maybe your sister can help you remember what else we said.”

She tugs at her two braids nervously, then catches herself and drops her hands, straightens her spine, and lifts her chin with conviction. It’s a mannerism so like my own. She is mine, that is for certain.

“Don’t leave Aunt Jo or Aunt Annie’s side and don’t talk during the speeches. If we see or hear anything and have questions, we can ask Mamma and Papa at lunch. We don’t have to talk to anyone if we don’t want to, but um… Aunt Jo said everyone is still pretty scared of her so they’ll probably stay away.”

“Very true, little songbird,” Peeta laughs and kisses her cheek. He ruffles our son’s hair and offers a hand to me to stand up. “And what’s the most important thing to never forget?”

“That you love us both – Always,” she recites and our son catches up in time to shout the last word along with her.

Their aunts guide them away as Peeta and I greet the President and his staff. He is announced and opens the event with a brief speech. Peeta and my hands are clasped, fingers intertwined, still each other’s anchor. All we are missing is a chariot and flaming costumes.

When we are given the cue to join them onstage, we are hit with a wall of noise. We complete the obligatory handshakes and waves before arriving at the lectern. Peeta and I look at each other meaningfully. If Peeta and I do this right, hopefully this will be the last speech we’ll ever have to make.

We are here to remind our country that this new Panem was borne only after nearly eight decades of violence, cruelty, and brutality. How many must have turned a blind eye to the suffering and starvation that surrounded them? How many bowed to the power of the government despite the atrocities committed? How many were, like me before the Games, so afraid of protecting my own that I agreed to be a piece in their games at the cost of standing up for what was right? Why did it take witnessing the callous murder of a 12-year-old girl from District 11 to remind me of my humanity?

Hatred slithers its way into the human heart and spreads like a virus.

Long ago, a few terrible people in power decided to create a punishment so extreme, so vile, their authority would be indisputable and unforgettable. They found a way to strangle an entire nation of its hope. Then, they found a way to turn that punishment into a form of entertainment, a sport to be consumed for pleasure.

Citizens stopped looking at their neighbors as fellow human beings. The suffering of others was so prevalent, it became _ordinary_. Those in power divided us and pitted us against each other. It became ‘us against them’ to distract us from ‘us against our government’.

They say it is a human instinct to protect the young, yet, it took eighteen hundred children being stolen from their parents’ arms and placed in an Arena to kill each other before the spark of revolution could successfully ignite.

This next generation must hear the stories that the previous ones were afraid to tell. They must remember that the strongest people are the ones that stand up for others. Our country will not be destroyed by those who do harm but by those who stand by and watch without stopping it. Our revolution began when a single voice dared to speak while the rest of the world stayed silent. Peace was only found when justice finally prevailed.

We have a duty to bear witness for the dead and for the living. We have a duty to ensure our nation never forgets. We have a duty to teach our children so they will know what is at stake. Only then can they demand a future that is better and brighter than that of our past.

I look at my husband and hold his gaze. Today with words, we’ll try and shake the nation the same way we did with a handful of berries.

_On the count of three…_

* * *

Decades will pass but peace remains. Panem will refuse to forget the atrocities that led to the rebellion. New mistakes will certainly be made, but the nation will evolve past the horrors that plagued so many for so long. Hope will be borne into each new generation and stories will be passed down from parent to child.

And in the outlying district that sparked a revolution when an insignificant 16-year-old girl volunteered for her sister, children will listen to the story of their great, great grandmother and grandfather. They’ll hear their stories of bread, and birds, and berries - of fire, force fields, and warfare. They’ll learn even a child can change the world and that when all seems lost, with some faith and determination, hope is always just a bud on the verge of blossoming.

Many years ago, a beloved husband and wife entwined their aged limbs around each other, holding one another close as they took their final breaths.

Today, as the children listen and learn, two 50-foot trees watch from above. A faithful linden and a strong oak reach across the lawn with braided roots and tangled branches, unwilling to let the other go.

* * *

_*Quotes from Mockingjay and The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an honor to share this story with you. Thank you for reading and for sharing your thoughts and reactions. I wish you and your loved ones all the best.


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